The Dance of Spring
by Queen of Ice and Winter
Summary: "My lady, it seems my journey here is not solely to return Dawn. For the sake of peace between Houses Dayne of Starfall, Stark of Winterfell and Baratheon of King's Landing, the king has commanded me to…to take you as wife." Sacrifices must be made; for honour, for duty, for love, for peace. Mostly AU.
1. Eddard I

Lord Eddard Stark rode towards the faint blur of a castle on the short, distant horizon, squinting against the dust that danced around and in front of him. Every now and then, a cloud of red dust would shower him like a coat of snow.

 _Snow._

It was still spring – for how long? – yet it felt like the middle of summer here in Dorne. Layers of sweat soaked the back of his neck and trickled down his long face from his forehead as he remained trapped in his armour. Ned wished he was back in the North – at home in Winterfell. His father and brother's deaths have been avenged, Lyanna…he swallowed and shook away the memory of his wild sister; wild no more. Robert's Rebellion…the War of the Usurper…Eddard sighed, shaking his head again. Whatever the maesters plan to call the war, for him, he was glad it ended. _It will never be over for Robert_ , he thought. _There will always be pretenders, wandering Targaryens, his dreams of Lyanna as his wife…_

With a heavy heart, Ned continued riding towards Starfall. He could not bear glancing back at the remains of the Tower of Joy. Six of his best men rode down from King's Landing to that damned tower; only the little crannogman Howland Reed trailed behind him on his small horse. _Willam Dustin…Martyn Cassel…Ethan Glover…Theo Wull…Mark Ryswell._ All good men cut down that day. For him. For Lyanna. For Robert.

"My lord," called Howland. "How much further?"

"We will be there by evening, perhaps," guessed Ned, wishing to leave and never set foot in Dorne again. No doubt Dorne was a place filled to the rim with a rich and vibrant culture, but for him…the death of Lyanna was enough to shy him away. Once he delivers the greatsword Dawn to Lady Ashara Dayne, sister of the Sword of the Morning, he will plant himself in Winterfell and stay there till the end of his days. He was of the North and anywhere but that was not for him. Ned doubted Lady Ashara Dayne would welcome him warmly. Why should she? He killed her valiant brother. The most he could hope for was bread and salt before she sends him and Howland on their way.

Ned urged his tired horse closer to the distant castle. Both he, Howland and their steeds were exhausted; the sooner they arrive at Starfall the better. Ned dared to hope Lady Ashara would permit them rooms for the night, or at least give Howland Reed time to recover. He would gladly ride back to the North; the small crannogman needed rest. Ned felt a wave of gratitude to Howland Reed. If it wasn't for Howland, it would be Ned's body buried with those of the six other northmen in the scorching Dornish desert. Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning, was too a true knight to leave the northmen's remains out as food for the crows…even if they fought on opposing sides.

"Here." Ned paused and threw Howland his last apple. "Eat," he advised. "You need your strength." _As do we all. We all need enough strength to swallow the Lannister atrocities of King's Landing; the crimson cloaked bodies of Elia Martell and her children…the child Rhaenys and the babe Aegon..._ Ned's heart hardened. Only a monster like Gregor Clegane will be brutal enough to _murder_ a weeping, pleading mother, a terrified girl and an infant. He hoped Robert would now have the sense to sentence Clegane and Rhaneys Targaryen's killer to death. _Jon must convince Robert to behead them,_ Ned prayed, the sound of Howland munching the apple a mere whisper of the hot desert wind. _Yes, Robert will – no, he_ must _– listen to Jon. Jon Arryn is the only man Robert will heed to_.

King Robert Baratheon was like a brother to him. In a way, he reminded Ned of his own, rather hot-blooded brother Brandon. Both Robert and Brandon were of looming height and unafraid of taking the maidenhead of girls. Robert had a bastard – a daughter – somewhere in the Vale and most likely a dozen more scattered between the Vale and King's Landing. Brandon had left no bastards, but he _had_ taken the maidenhead of Lord Rodrik Ryswell's daughter…who happened to be wife of Willam Dustin. Ned suspected she would not welcome him warmly when he returns to Winterfell.

 _A hero's welcome is not for me_ , Ned thought. _For Robert yes, if Brandon had lived, yes. Not for me._ Howland rode up beside him, clinging strenuously to the reins. "You will rest when we arrive at Starfall," Ned told him, "you are in no state to ride back after a few hours." If Brandon was in his place, he would've made a jape. I will not want to bury another friend, he might've jested.

"Will Lady Ashara welcome us, my lord?" said the crannogman worriedly.

Ned shrugged. "She will not fear you; she bears no ounce of hatred towards you." Like any highborn lady, he was certain she would give common courtesy and give them refreshments. "For me…" he paused. "I will consider it fortunate if I am served stale bread and water." His horse neighed with fatigue. Ned patted him and said mindlessly. "We are almost there."

"If Lady Ashara sends you away, I will follow you my lord," promised Howland loyally. "I'd rather die on the road with my liege lord than in a Dornish keep far from the North."

Ned nodded with thanks. "You are a good man, Lord Reed." He looked at him levelly. "We must talk…when we are home again in the North."

* * *

"Lord Stark." Lady Ashara Dayne stood with her arms crossed in the solar as her violet eyes coldly rested upon the exhausted and grimy Ned and Howland. "I did not expect to see you here. If you're here to tell me Lord Robert Baratheon is now king, you had a wasted journey. I received a raven earlier this morning from a maester in King's Landing."

Ned shifted uncomfortably. The last time he saw Lady Ashara was during the festivities of the fateful Tourney at Harrenhal. She had danced with him – most likely asked by Brandon – and he remembered her to be of tall stature with long, cascading dark hair and the most haunting violet eyes. As he looked at her now, she was just as – if not more – beautiful. Silently, Ned reached for Dawn from the scabbard on his back and carefully placed it on the oaken table between him and Howland and Ashara Dayne.

He waited as Ashara stared at it, speechless. Dawn gleamed as she touched its hilt. The greatsword was said to be made from metal forged from the heart of a fallen star. A tear rolled down Ashara Dayne's fair cheek, landing on the blade as pale as milkglass. "Do you know what is so special about Dawn, my lords?" she said quietly, her slim fingers gripping the hilt tightly.

"Dawn is not passed down from lord to lord," Ned responded softly. "Am I correct, my lady?"

"Only a _worthy_ knight of House Dayne can wield it." Ashara examined the glistening blade carefully as if it was her babe. "A _true_ knight, the Sword of the Morning. Where is my brother?"

"Ser Arthur Dayne…he is dead, my lady. He died bravely, valiantly, honourably all in the name of his king." Another tear trickled down Ashara's cheek. "He was the truest knight in the Seven Kingdoms and also the deadliest. If it wasn't for Lord Howland Reed over here…he would have returned to you triumphant. My lady…I regret I did not have the power to bring you your brother's body." A third tear followed the second. "I did not have enough horses or strength to bring him from the Tower of Joy."

More tears seeped from Ashara Dayne's haunting purple eyes as Ned barged ahead and said, "Ser Arthur is with his prince now."

Ashara collapsed onto her chair, her hands visibly shaking as she muttered as if in a trance, "The White Bull…dead. Prince Lewyn Martell of Dorne…dead. Ser Oswell Whent…dead. Ser Jonothor Darry…also dead. And now my brother, the Sword in the Morning…d-d-dead." She laughed wildly. "Is Ser Barristan the Bold dead too? All the great knights of the Seven Kingdoms dead!"

"Ser Barristan Selmy lives," Ned informed her uncertainly. "The king plans to give him the position of Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Ser Jaime-"

"Kingslayer! He murdered King Aerys!"

"Very well. The Kingslayer still lives. He is not the most honourable of knights, but he is a skilled warrior." His last words carried a bitter taste. Calling Ser Jaime Lannister a skilled warrior was not something he would say on a normal day. "I sincerely hope the Kingsguard will be filled with true knights once again."

"My brother…there was no knight as valiant as him."

Ned nodded in agreement. "Aye, my lady."

Lady Ashara wiped away her tears. "Who killed him?"

Ned bowed his head. "I did, my lady. I am not proud of it." He felt her accusing eyes bore into him. Before he could speak, he felt a sharp, stinging slap on his right cheek. "My lord!" the crannogman shouted in alarm.

Ned's mouth twisted into a sad smile. In Lady Ashara's eyes, he deserved it. It was not particularly honourable, but at least she did not consider murdering him out of vengeance with Dawn.

"If you were any other man, I would run you through with a sword!" Ashara Dayne snapped, her eyes burning with fury. "Not with Dawn of course, but there are other, equally sharp blades that are capable of killing men! Be gone with you my lords! I do not want to see you in Starfall ever again! You brought me back my House's ancestral sword; for that, I thank you. If my men catch you near Starfall again, you will wish you never set foot in Dorne! You, Lord Reed, I bear no ill will against you. As for you, Lord Stark-" she narrowed her eyes dangerously and said softly "-if you were not Lord Brandon's brother, you would not fare as well." She stood up. "Please leave."

"My lady," said Howland hastily, almost tripping over his own tired feet. "I beg you a minute of your time. It is quite a long way home and we are running short on supplies. Perhaps a sack of apples? A few loaves of bread? Skins of water? If it wouldn't trouble you, mayhaps some directions?"

Ashara frowned. "Directions? Do you not have a map, Lord Reed?"

"Dorne is as foreign to us as the North is to you, my lady. I've oft heard of the Daynes' excellent hospitality. I understand your losses, my lady, and I mourn the death of the great Sword of the Morning as much as you. A bed for the night and bread and salt for supper are all we require, my lady."

Lady Ashara blinked. "Our excellent hospitality?"

The little crannogman offered her the most charming smile he could muster with his failing strength. "Aye my lady."

With a sigh, Ashara gestured for him and Ned to follow her. "I will have a maid bring you food," she said, striding down the stairs. "Will bread, a cold soup and a flagon of Dornish wine do? I will have your rooms prepared, my lords. The cook will restock your supplies and I will find someone willing to take you across to the Reach. I'm certain you will be able to make your way home after that, don't you think, my lords?"

"We are most grateful, my lady," said Ned, relieved. He gave Howland another grateful nod. Without the clever crannogman, he would be on the road supply less, famished and drained. The blazing sun would kill him first if not angry and vengeful Dornishmen.

Lady Ashara's steps echoed in the castle's maze of corridors as she led Ned and Howland to Starfall's Great Hall. Hung on the stone wall behind the Lord of Starfall's seat were three banners; the red-sun-and-golden-spear on an orange field of House Martell surrounded by two banners emblazoned with the white-sword-and-falling-star crossed on a purple field of the Daynes of Starfall.

To Ned's astonishment, Lady Ashara Dayne crossed the Great Hall and opened another, a side door, leading to a smaller room. In the middle of it was a large, round table constructed from oak. Around it were a number of chairs all equal in height. Displayed on the walls were portraits of men in armour, their hands all grasping Dawn. _Swords of the Morning._

"Yes," said Lady Ashara, watching him beadily. "Ancestors, uncles, cousins…it would not be long before a portrait of my brother joins them. That is Ser Davos Dayne" – she pointed at the portrait closest to the door "-and that is Ser Ulrick Dayne. I trust you've heard of them." Every Sword of the Morning was famous throughout the Seven Kingdoms. "Ser Arthur would be the most famed of them all," Ned remarked. "All the children will hear his song."

Ashara smiled dryly. "The song of the Sword in the Morning. There will be little boys running in courtyards waving their wooden swords, pretending they are the valiant Ser Arthur Dayne with the greatsword Dawn."

Ned smiled a little. "Why are we here my lady?"

"Do you prefer to sup with Lord Reed alone in the Great Hall? I thought you and Lord Reed would like privacy whilst you are here."

"That is kind of you, my lady."

"Apparently we Daynes offer 'excellent hospitality'. Your supper shall arrive shortly." She bade them to sit and gracefully stalked out.

"She is a lovely woman, my lord," commented Howland, sighing with relief as he sunk onto a purple cushioned chair. "Ahhhh…"

"Enjoy it while you can," said Ned, pulling out the waxed letter brought to him by a dying messenger, now buried somewhere Dorne. He examined it and saw the seal of a crowned stag. Robert. It must be extremely important or he would not have sent a messenger to chase after him in Dorne. Ned broke the seal and his eyebrows rose. It was by Jon Arryn's hand.

After years as a ward in the Eyrie with Robert Baratheon, Ned had recognised their foster father Jon Arryn's handwriting up to the point he knew it more well than his own father Rickard Stark's writing.

"Is that the letter from the dead messenger?" asked Howland, his eyes falling upon a plate of fried fish. "Do you think the Dornish leave their meat out in the sun to cook?" he wondered.

"It is written by Lord Arryn." Ned's frown deepened as he read the contents of the letter. He nodded as a maid placed a fresh loaf of bread and a plate of cold meat in front of him. She then poured them a cup of Dornish wine each before bobbing a little nod and leaving the room. Ned stabbed the meat with his clean dagger and brought it to his mouth. He carefully read the letter again, chewing thoughtfully. The slice of meat was not as spicy as he expected. "The king is set to wed Lady Catelyn Tully," Ned informed his crannogman friend. "Lord Arryn had written they will marry once we return…to King's Landing." His stomach turned as he recalled the Red Keep's Great Hall.

"I thought you plan to return to Winterfell my lord?"

"My plans have apparently changed." He deliberated if Lady Catelyn would openly disapprove of Robert's whoring ways. Lyanna certainly did.

"I heard rumours," Lyanna had said after she was introduced to Robert before the tourney at Harrenhal. "Is it true Robert Baratheon fathered a bastard in the Vale? A little bastard girl?" What could Ned do but affirm the truth? "I will not stand for his whoring and drinking," Lyanna had then declared, flicking her dark hair defiantly. "I will not wed an unfaithful man."

"Lord Tully must be delighted." Howland ripped the loaf in half and devoured his portion like a hungry wolf to his prey. "It is not every day a Tully maiden would be queen."

"Lady Catelyn was to wed my brother if he lived." _Or I if Lyanna had not died in the Tower of Joy._ The wily Lord Hoster Tully had been quite insistent: if Lady Lyanna Stark was rescued and unsullied, his eldest daughter Catelyn will marry Ned. If the Lady Lyanna Stark was raped or dead, Catelyn was to be King Robert Baratheon's queen.

"The king must value you highly to postpone his own wedding, my lord. Not many kings will do that."

"Not many kings are like Robert." A grin appeared on Ned's face. "Are you still hungry? Have my bread. I…I lost my appetite." He pushed his share of the bread towards Howland. "You should have turned back before we reached the Tower of Joy. If you did, you would be on your way home."

Lord Howland smiled. "You are my liege lord. Besides, I owed your sister a debt. She protected me against those squires and I will protect and aid you the best I can. I will not go home until your business is concluded and this war finally done. You and I both know that this war will not be over until peace is restored throughout the Seven Kingdoms. There is Dorne to appease, Targaryen loyalists to hunt down…the king will need you at his side, my lord."

Ned sighed and nodded. "The king needs Lord Arryn too."

"What of his brothers?"

"Renly is still a child. Robert will need Stannis." Robert and Stannis had never gotten along particularly well before. Mayhaps they will be more brotherly now that Robert is king.

Wordless, Ned handed Howland the letter. Howland glanced at it and said flatly, "I cannot read your letter, my lord."

"Howland…I consider you one of my most trusted lords, and I…I require an opinion on this matter."

Apprehensively, Howland glanced at the letter. After staring at it for a good minute or two, he drained his goblet of wine. "What can I say?" he sighed, giving the letter back to Ned. "In Lord Arryn's writing it may be…but it is still the king's orders. There is nothing you can do my lord, but obey."

* * *

For the first time in months, Ned slept on a cosy bed without the worry of an unexpected attack. Nevertheless, he did not sleep like a babe. Every night he was persistently plagued by nightmares of the Tower of Joy…of Lyanna. Last night was no exception.

Splashing his face with clear water from the silver basin, Ned headed shook himself awake and headed to the Great Hall for a spot of breakfast. He smiled as he caught no sign of the little crannogman. It was admirable of him to accompany him to Starfall when he had the chance to turn back and return home. I will never forget his determination or loyalty. He entered Starfall's Great Hall and nodded as he noticed Ashara and a petite child nibbling flatbread at the long tables. Two servants slipped in and out silently like mice. "My lady," Ned said politely. "I hope you slept well." Yesterday Ashara had worn flowing silks of lilac cinched at her waist with a belt of amethysts and pearls; today she was covered from head to toe in black like a grieving widow. The belt of purple and white was promptly replaced with one of onyxes and around her slender neck was a star pendant wrought from pearls. "The last gift from my brother," said Ashara, noticing his grey eyes upon it. "It was our mother's. Arthur was to bestow it upon his future bride, but as he chose to be a knight of the Kingsguard…he granted it to me as a gift for my last name day. I hope you slept better than I, my lord. I spent half the night reading all the letters Arthur had written me."

"I too, did not sleep well," admitted Ned, taking a seat opposite her after his host nodded for him to sit. He gazed at the dark haired child curiously. "Is she your niece, my lady?" he could not help but ask. There were two Dayne brothers. The Sword in the Morning and…

"No, she is my sister, my lord," she replied, "Allyria Dayne. She is yet to be told of her brother's…death." Her voice wavered. "Allyria only knows her brother as a valiant knight, saving maidens and slaying dragons. Perhaps it will be good for her to remember him that way." She chuckled rather shakily and gently prodded her sister towards the door. Little Allyria Dayne beamed at him before skipping out, singing to an unfamiliar tune.

"My lady…" Ned passed his letter to Ashara. "It seems my journey here is not solely to return Dawn." He cringed as she shot him a furious glare as she read through the letter. "For the sake of peace between Houses Dayne of Starfall, Stark of Winterfell and Baratheon of King's Landing," Ned went on quickly, "the king has commanded me to…to take you as wife."

* * *

 **My first ASOIAF fanfic! I hope you enjoyed reading the chapter - please review! :D Any ideas or suggestions are most welcome.**


	2. Catelyn I

"You look beautiful, Cat." Lysa Tully sighed with envy as she watched Catelyn stand in front of the large looking glass in a gown of blue silk with long flowing sleeves. Every inch of it was covered with an embroidered design of silver trouts and mud red swirls. She donned a silver trout necklace fashioned from silver and allowed a maid to brush her wavy tresses of auburn hair.

"You do too." Catelyn smiled at her younger sister who looked equally pretty in a dark blue gown that complemented her rather pale complexion. Lysa was not usually so pallid, but over the last few weeks, she had been confined to her chambers. Their father had told her Lysa was ill. Lysa made a face. "You are taller than me," she pointed out. "The king is of looming height – so _handsome_ too! Oh Cat! You are the more fortunate of us two!"

"You forgot Edmure."

Lysa shrugged. "Edmure is our _brother_ ; he will always be more lucky than either of us girls. When will you and the king wed?"

Catelyn thought for a moment. "When Lord Stark returns from Dorne. I doubt the king will marry me without his childhood friend present." _Lord Stark._ Last year she was to wed Lord Brandon Stark and become the future Lady of Winterfell; a few months ago, she was set to wed Brandon's brother, the solemn Lord Eddard Stark; in a few weeks, she is to wed _King_ Robert Baratheon and become queen and mother of his heirs. Who could have foreseen the Lady Lyanna Stark's death? The prospect of queenship thrilled and frightened Cat. Lady of Winterfell was one matter; Queen of the Seven Kingdoms…

"Do you love him?" said Lysa eagerly.

"What?" Catelyn was taken back. She hardly knew Robert Baratheon. In Riverrun she had heard of his tremendous feats and ability to transform foes into friends – a venerable skill. "I suppose I will love him when we are married," said Catelyn uncertainly. "It will be my duty to love my lord husband."

"Do you think Father will betroth me to a man as noble, valiant and handsome as yours?" Lysa sighed dreamily.

"Perhaps. If Father desires an alliance with House Tyrell, I suppose you will be wed to a handsome Tyrell lord. I think Father is still keen on the alliance with the Starks…at least you seen Lord Stark before." She smiled at the prospect of her little sister as Lady of Winterfell. Lord Stark would be a fool if he refuses to wed a sweet girl such as Lysa. "He is a fine-looking man."

Lysa wrinkled her nose. "Eddard Stark is so…so _serious!_ He hardly laughed like Brandon Stark did." Catelyn had forgotten Lysa was with her when they were presented to the Starks at Harrenhal. She wished Rhaegar Targaryen had never abducted Lyanna Stark elsewise she would be happily married to Brandon and a mother in Winterfell. Will you? Will you truly be happy as Brandon's wife? Have you neglected the thought of his way with women?

"Cat, Lysa." Their father rapped on the door. "The king is ready for you."

Taking a deep breath, Catelyn left her rooms with Lysa gripping her arm with excitement. _Some would think it is Lysa as the king's betrothed, not me_ , Catelyn thought. Father nodded at her with approval. "Very lovely Cat. The king will no doubt be charmed by the end of the feast. Lysa, I expect you to be the beautiful, well-behaved lady I know you are. No giggling or swooning. Do you understand, Lysa? I wish to show the court both my daughters are women grown. There will be powerful lords at the celebrations today and I wish for both of you to impress upon them greatly. Cat, you are to be their queen. Prove to them a daughter of the Riverlands is fit to be our king's consort. Lysa, I am to broker a marriage for you. Show the lords you are worthy enough to wed their sons."

"Yes Father," both Tully girls said in unison. Lord Hoster Tully smiled. "Good. You both look beautiful. Your uncle Brynden-" he scowled "-and Edmure are both waiting for you with the rest of the court."

"Uncle Brynden will be a knight of the Kingsguard," said Lysa, her blue eyes shining with joy. "He will be one of the finest knights in all the realm! He will be able to protect Cat if the evil Targaryens come back!"

Catelyn nodded. "His first duty is to protect our king," she corrected. Uncle Brynden was a brilliant warrior; his appointment to the Kingsguard was such a kind suggestion of the king's.

"I cannot imagine Uncle Brynden in white," remarked Lysa. "He always wears black. Father, are you pleased Uncle Brynden will be of the Kingsguard?"

Catelyn watched as their father pursed his lips. "A Tully is always happy for the victories of another Tully," he said finally. "I am quite delighted Brynden is honoured with the prestigious offer of a place in the Kingsguard. However, once he swears his vows he will no longer marry or sire children. There will never be another branch of our family from him. A pity. If he had not been so stubborn, he would've already had Bethany Redwyne as wife. By now he probably would've had a few sons and daughters." He sniffed. "You would've had a couple of Tully cousins and Riverrun would be filled with more laughter."

"It will soon enough," said Catelyn confidently. "Edmure will have no trouble siring a number of sons and daughters who will require your attention once they can toddle and speak." Father chuckled. "Aye," he agreed. "All the girls beautiful like you and Lysa and all the boys robust and full of virility. Ah, we are here." He stopped in front of a pair of double doors constructed from the finest oak banded with bronze. The doors swung open.

"Hoster Tully, Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Trident and his daughters, the Lady Catelyn and the Lady Lysa of House Tully!"

Smiling, Catelyn followed her father into the Great Hall. Sitting on the throne moulded from spikes, jagged edges and twisted metal on top of a high platform, was her betrothed, King Robert Baratheon the First of His Name. Lysa had not lied; Robert was indeed a handsome man.

 _Very_ handsome.

"Lord Tully!" said the king in a booming voice fit for a warrior. He stood up and strode towards them, a broad grin on his face. He was tall in stature, broad shouldered and muscled; the perfect knight in a maiden's fantasy. He vigorously shook Catelyn's father's hand before turning to her and Lysa. "These must be your beautiful daughters!" he declared, looking at them with interest. "Lady Catelyn, you grow more lovely every day," he complimented, kissing Cat's hand. Catelyn felt no taller than the dwarf Tyrion Lannister as she stood in front of the looming king. "You must be Lady Catelyn's sister," said the king, smiling warmly at Lysa. "I say! You are as pretty as rose!" He glanced over his shoulder and shouted, "Lord Tyrell! Do you not think Lady Lysa is a true rose?"

A fat lord in green stepped forward and blustered, "Oh yes, Your Grace. The Lady Lysa is as lovely as the roses in Highgarden." He bowed clumsily.

Lysa blushed as red as Lord Tywin Lannister's crimson cloak.

"Where is your uncle Blackfish?" said the king, looking around. "I look forward to sleeping safely with the Blackfish guarding my door! I must say, it will be odd to see him garbed in white rather than black." He snorted with laughter. "What say you my lady Catelyn? Can you imagine your uncle Blackfish wearing a white cloak and carrying a white shield?"

 _White does not suit Uncle Brynden_ , thought Catelyn. _He is a man in black and will die a knight in black_. She shook her head. "Uncle Brynden will look queer in white, Your Grace," she said truthfully. "It will be an unusual sight; the blackfish of House Tully attired in white? I wonder if we will begin calling him whitefish instead!" She smiled as her betrothed and the other lords laughed.

"Perhaps the Blackfish can keep his black armour?" suggested a rather foolish lord. The king slowly turned and glared at him.

"Your Grace," said Catelyn quickly. "Pray tell me, when will we wed?"

"Once Ned returns," answered the king, kissing her hand again. "We will not wed until my childhood friend is back. Please excuse me my lady." He nodded at her and went to speak to a waiting lord. Ladies swarmed around Catelyn like a flock of eager birds.

"Our congratulations on your betrothal to His Grace." The tall and dignified Lady Alerie Hightower was the first to bless her. She gracefully swept her long braid of silver hair adorned with glittering emeralds to one side as she smiled at Catelyn. "Forgive my husband for his earlier words, my lady," she said, sliding her green eyes to the Tyrell lord who had blustered his words. "He was meant to say the Lady Lysa was _more_ beautiful than any rose in Highgarden."

"Lady Alerie," Catelyn acknowledged. "All is forgiven, though your husband had not meant any offence. My sister Lysa is still delighted to be compared to the exquisiteness of a rose."

"Lady Catelyn." The wizened and old Lady Tanda Stokeworth pushed her way to Catelyn's side. "My lady, there will be room in your household for my two dear daughters Falyse and Lollys? Oh say you will take them as your ladies!" Someone sniggered rudely.

Catelyn chose to ignore it. "I will consider it, Lady Stokeworth," she answered solemnly. "I cannot promise them places in my service as of yet, but I will inform you soon enough when the time comes."

"My lady, a word if you please?" Catelyn hid a look of surprise as Lord Arryn appeared at her side. She smiled at the other ladies and took Lord Arryn's arm as he led her around the Great Hall. "You look regal, my lady," he said kindly. "You will be a wonderful queen."

"Thank you my lord," said Catelyn cautiously. "You look well."

Lord Jon Arryn barked with laughter. "As well as an old man can look, my lady. Now, you must know His Grace had always been hot-blooded with a lust for wine and women. That will not do for a good king, eh? You seem to be a calm woman with a caring nature. Tame his drinking. If peace is to be maintained, we need His Grace to have a clear and sound mind."

"I understand, my lord." Will the king even listen to me? What if he thinks me naught more than a brood mare?

"Good. There is another matter regarding…your uncle."

"Oh?" She gave the Lord of the Eyrie a confused look. "My lord, I thought the king wishes to give him a place in the Kingsguard?"

"He does my lady, but the Blackfish does not desire to be a white cloak." His brow furrowed. "The Blackfish entertains the idea of an unmarried life, but he seems to enjoy the notion of arguing with his brother more."

"My uncle Brynden does not _enjoy_ arguing with my father, my lord…"

"He does not seem amused at the prospect of being called whitefish."

Catelyn laughed. "It will not suit him my lord."

"As the future queen, I propose the matter to you: ask the king for your uncle to be your sworn shield. He will be able to protect you if harm comes your way and he can still wear his black."

"My lord…it is up to my uncle if he wishes to be part of the Kingsguard or not. I will not use my place as the king's betrothed to request anything yet. What will the lords and ladies say of a Tully in the Kingsguard and a Tully for queen? The Tullys are rising at court, they will say. Soon the king's court will be flooded with the trouts and their followers."

"You are very astute, my lady." Lord Arryn dipped his head. "Lord Tully must be proud to have a daughter such as you."

* * *

Catelyn woke to the sound of hysterical sobbing. Stifling a yawn, she slipped on a pair of doeskin slippers and wrapped a woolly blue cloak around herself before creeping into Lysa's quarters. As the king's betrothed, Cat had been given spacious chambers in Maegor's Holdfast as were her father and Lysa. Cat found her sister crying on her bed. Like she did when their mother died, Cat gave her weeping sister a long hug. "What is the matter Lysa?"

"I am to wed," Lysa choked out, her blue eyes streaming with tears. "F-father told me after the feast yesterday."

"What's with the tears then? You always wanted to be a mother."

Lysa wailed. "I am to wed Lord Arryn!"

Cat's mouth dropped open. " _Lord Jon Arryn?_ "

"Father is cruel! He plans to wed me to an old man! You saw him the other day Cat! You even talked to him! I am doomed for a loveless marriage! Jon Arryn will never love me! He only wants me as wife for sons!" A fresh river of tears flowed down Lysa's fair cheeks.

"He will love you," soothed Cat, squeezing her hand assuredly. "You are sister to the future queen. Only a fool will mistreat the future queen's sister. Besides, you are beautiful. You heard Lord Tyrell; you are as pretty as a blooming rose of Highgarden. Lord Arryn will be struck by your beauty and will love you. Do you remember House Arryn's words?"

A sniffle. "As H-high as H-honour."

"Lord Arryn is too honourable to sire bastards at least, dear sister. At least he will remain faithful to you." _Unlike the king._ During the feast yesterday, Catelyn had heard rumours of King Robert's notorious hunger for women. Lord Horton Redfort, a short, old man with a well-kept beard and mild eyes, was not troubled in telling her about the king's bastard of four years residing in the Vale. A couple of knights and lords claimed the king had littered a number of bastards before, during and after every battle in his rebellion.

Lysa's eyes widened. "Oh! Cat! You are to be the queen! Help me Cat! You can order Father to break my betrothal to Lord Arryn!" She looked hopeful.

Catelyn shook her head regretfully. "I'm sorry Lysa. Father will be furious. He had arranged for you to wed a man he thinks fit for a daughter of the Riverlands. I cannot command him to break it because you wish me to. _Family, Duty, Honour_. Never forget our House words Lysa. What we do, who we wed, what we say…all our actions will either prosper or disgrace House Tully. Do you want Father to die a heartbroken old man or a proud father of three? For the sake of our family, we must do our duty, which in our case means good marriages. The Arryns are one of the oldest Houses in the Seven Kingdoms and you will be the Lady of the Eyrie, your descendants the powerful Lords of the Eyrie, Defenders of the Vale and Wardens of the East." She smiled mysteriously. "Can you keep a secret? Even though it wouldn't be a secret much longer?"

"What is it?"

"The king will ask Lord Arryn to be his Hand," Cat whispered. "I heard Father speak of it with the king during the feast. If you are his wife, you will be obliged to stay at court. You will be near me!"

Lysa hiccupped and giggled. "I suppose wedding Lord Arryn would not be too bad," she said uncertainly. "He is quite old. Perhaps he will die before we wed in a few weeks' time?" _Lord Arryn must be desperate for an heir; what else could explain the quick betrothal?_

"Edmure is so lucky he can stay at home," said Lysa longingly, "his impending bride will journey to him." From her excellent view at the high table during the feast, Catelyn had observed their father speak quietly with Lady Alerie's father, Lord Leyton Hightower of Oldtown for a good hour at least. She suspected they were haggling over an alliance of sorts; the war was more than over. Tullys and Hightowers had fought as enemies, now was the time for peace.

"It is almost dawn," said Catelyn, glimpsing a slimmer of sunlight slithering from under the curtains. "Have you cried all night?"

Lysa shook her head to her relief. "I had a bad dream. I dreamt Lord Arryn had beaten me for not bearing him a son."

"Impossible! He is too honourable to beat you. You will have a brood of bonny sons and daughters. Father used to say those of the Riverlands are as fertile as the lands. Look at Lord Frey; he sired five children with his sixth wife and at least a dozen by his previous wives."

"What will happen if I do not give Lord Arryn any children?"

Catelyn thought for a moment. "He will be succeeded by a nephew or cousin I expect. Do not fear, dear Lysa. I know you will have a son."

The two Tully sisters smiled at each other for a minute. "I can see Petyr again," said Lysa suddenly. Cat felt a sense of dread rolling in her stomach. "Father sent him back to the Fingers," Lysa continued, her eyes lit with excitement. "As Lady of the Eyrie, I can help him! Oh, remember when we used to feed him mud pies, Cat? He was so helpful to me when we were children! I never grasped sums as a child and he would oft help me." She beamed. "Once I wed Lord Arryn, I will be able to help him back!"

"Is that wise?" said Catelyn tentatively. _Lysa, why must you bring even the tiniest mention of Petyr back in our lives…when Father sent him away, I hoped never to hear of him again…_

Lysa gaped at her. "Cat! Father was wrong when he sent him away. Petyr is our _friend_ and it is our duty to help him like he helped us in the past." She giggled again. "Well, he helped _me_ more than you in our lessons. You were always clever at everything." She sighed with admiration. "Petyr still cares for you," she said casually, "are you aware of it?"

 _You fool Petyr…_ "No," said Catelyn stiffly.

"He did not write to you?" He did once…after Brandon Stark's death. Catelyn shook her head, instantly consumed by guilt. "I still have a stack of unread letters back in Riverrun," she lied. "Perhaps Petyr's letter is there. Get some sleep Lysa. I will see you in the morning for breakfast." She gave her sister another hug and crept back to her chambers. _Petyr_ , she thought, the image of a short, slender boy with remarkable grey-green eyes and dark hair appeared in her mind. _I should have known you wouldn't disappear from my life so easily. I hope I will never see you again._ As she climbed back onto her bed, she had a nasty feeling the shrewd Petyr Baelish of the Fingers would worm his way back…

* * *

Morning greeted Catelyn with unusual silence. Catelyn did not like it. It was too…austere. Mornings in Riverrun always began with the songs twittered by the birds that nested in the godswood. Catelyn sighed glumly. There will be many more songless mornings to come.

After she dressed – settling for a lovely gown made from blue silk cuffed with Myrish lace – she broke her fast with her father, Edmure and Lysa on small, round oatcakes dripping generously with splatters of golden honey, a fresh loaf of bread and two boiled eggs (each), all washed down with cups of Arbor gold, the finest wine of Westeros. If it was any ordinary day in Riverrun, Catelyn would have headed to the sept and prayed. However, Father informed her and Lysa that they are all expected in the Great Hall again; the king's brother Lord Stannis, had sent a messenger with urgent news.

"My lady Catelyn!" the king said jovially as the Tullys entered the Great Hall. "I see you are even more beautiful than you were yesterday! Lord Tully! Lady Lysa! Good to see you both!" He bade for Catelyn to sit on the golden-cushioned chair beside him. The lords and ladies present stepped away. Catelyn felt their gazes upon her as she walked to the king as gracefully as she could. Robert kissed her hand as she sat down. "You are well my lord?" Catelyn inquired.

"Never better!" he boasted, grinning from ear to ear. _He is even more happier than yesterday._ Before Catelyn could dwell more on it, he nodded at a windswept man hovering near the doors. _He must be Lord Stannis's messenger._

"Your Grace." The messenger bowed. "I bring forth news-"

"Yes, yes." The king waved his hand dismissively. "You bring forth a message from my brother Stannis. What is it?"

Slightly taken back, the messenger paused and said almost breathlessly, "Lord Stannis has captured Dragonstone! The Targaryen fleet was destroyed at night and Lord Stannis has installed a garrison of his strongest men there in the name of Your Grace. Lord Stannis is sailing back here as we speak and with him are two prisoners – a boy and an infant girl."

* * *

 **Thanks for the reviews! I'm so pleased to hear your thoughts on the first chapter! :) So...should the Blackfish be part of the Kingsguard? It was a friend's suggestion; I found it a little strange, but I've decided to ask you readers for your opinions on it! The characters may be a little OOC and I promise I'll write them more in character as this story progresses. Oh, and yes, Jon Snow will appear :)**


	3. Rhaella

The queen huddled closer to the crackling fire as shards of rain poured down from the dark skies. The wind howled as another volley of rain droplets collided against the windows of Windwyrm. _No more_ , prayed Queen Rhaella, covering her ears with her shaking hands. _No more._

For nine months, Rhaella had hid in in Dragonstone with her seven year old son Viserys, and a number of soldiers still loyal to the Targaryen cause including the Red Keep's once master-of-arms Ser Willem Darry. When Rhaella learnt of her eldest son Rhaegar's death at the Trident, it had been the old Ser Willem who gently broke the news to Viserys in his gruff, kind voice. Rhaegar had loved the old knight; Ser Willem had taught Rhaegar everything he knew about swordplay. Within the first month of refuge in the island fortress, Rhaella had discovered Dragonstone was no place for a child. _Perhaps if my grandchildren Rhaenys and Aegon are here too, Viserys would not be so bored_. It was not the first time the queen wished her little grandchildren in Dragonstone. At least for some time, Ser Willem entertained Viserys with stories of valiant knights and dragons.

Rhaella winced as her fingers brushed against a healing scar. She placed her hand over her belly and smiled as the babe in her womb kicked. If it is a son, he will be named Rhaegar after his noble brother who died a hero against the rebel Robert Baratheon. If it happened to be a girl…

"My queen." Rhaella smiled thinly as Ser Willem Darry hovered near the door. He did not smile back. She studied him for a moment. He looked quite strained of late. "Is something amiss ser?" she asked anxiously.

"Aye," said the old knight grimly. His expression blank, he said steadily, "His Grace your husband, is dead."

Rhaella stared at him, her thoughts dancing with happiness and shock. Her cruel husband…dead? "How did he die?" she said calmly.

"He was killed – slew by Ser Jaime Lannister."

"Ser Jaime Lannister! But…but he is a knight of the Kingsguard!"

Ser Willem nodded, contorting his expression to one of disgust. "My queen, he disgraced the name of the Kingsguard! He does not even deserve to be a knight! No matter. He will be punished in time, no doubt about that Your Grace." As if on impulse, he knelt. "Your Grace…with the king's death, you must be the regent for your son, King Viserys Targaryen, the Third of His Name. As your loyal knight, I suggest you deliver the news to the young king himself. He will surely need his lady mother at a time like this."

"Regent…" Rhaella looked pointedly at her growing stomach. "Ser Willem, I doubt I can command the army in my condition."

Ser Willem could not resist a chuckle. "Your Grace, the men know what to do. When the rebels attack, we defeat them. Shall I tell the king you wish to have supper with him today?"

Rhaella nodded. "I will be with him shortly." She stared at her reflection in the mirror as Ser Willem left. She had never thought herself beautiful – if she was, would Aerys had taken mistresses? – with her strands of silvery-blonde hair and violet eyes. The late Lady Joanna Lannister was pretty. She sighed sadly and wondered if she would've been happier if she had not dismissed Lady Lannister from her entourage of ladies many years ago. Lady Lannister had been nothing but kind and an obedient lady-in-waiting…but Rhaella had noticed the lustful gazes Aerys had given her. _It was for Lady Lannister's own good_ , Rhaella told herself as she slowly descended the winding stairs to the Great Hall. Aerys had always been quick to anger as to love; he had tortured one of his once-beloved mistresses to death before.

She wrapped her red fox fur mantle tightly around her shoulders as the wind sliced through her. _At least it is cold. I rather icy cold wind than fire burns_. The flickering candles could not even bring light as the shadows lengthened in the corners infested with cobwebs. More candles glowed in the Great Hall as soldiers supped over flagons of ale and dry bread as they murmured amongst themselves. Rhaella smiled as she saw her son sit at the virtually empty high table beside Ser Willem Darry staring at a bowl.

"Viserys," she said warmly, embracing him once she climbed the dais. _If Aerys was not dead, he would burn me until I am nothing but ashes._ She pushed a stray lock of silver-blonde hair behind Viserys's ear. "Are you well?"

Her son nodded. It was not natural for him to have a long, gaunt face at such a young age. Rhaella cupped his chin with her thin hands. "Your father is dead," she said softly. "Do you know what that means?"

Viserys nodded again. "I am Viserys Targaryen the Third of My Name," he said solemnly, "King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

"Very good my son."

"Why is baby Aegon not king?"

Rhaella stared at him uneasily. "Aegon and Rhaenys are still in King's Landing with Princess Elia of Dorne. Aegon is too young to be king, and we are at war; no one will support an infant king."

"I am still a child."

Rhaella kissed his pale cheek. "You are older than Aegon, are you not?" She took his hand and pressed it against her belly. "Do you want a baby sister or baby brother?" She chuckled as Viserys frowned gravely.

"A brother," he decided, smiling at the growing bump. "He will be my heir. If Father is dead, are Aegon and Rhaenys prisoners?" Rhaella looked at Ser Willem with alarm. The thought of her little grandchildren as the Usurper's hostages had not occurred to her…

Hesitation flashed in Ser Willem's eyes. "They…" he said finally. "They are both safe. The eunuch Varys has smuggled them away before King Aerys was killed. If the gods are with us, they will sail to Braavos and be under the care of loyal men until we…we join them."

"Join them?" repeated Viserys, his purple eyes swivelling to him. "Ser Willem, the Iron Throne is mine by _right_ ; that is what Father always said to me." Dread cut through Rhaella like a knife. _What had Aerys been telling him?_

* * *

The thunder rolled and bellowed like an angry bull. For two nights, the storm raged and the sea seethed; there had been no improvement. The Targaryen fleet anchored to Dragonstone tossed and turned like the wooden ships the Redwynes had gifted Viserys when he was born. It was a pity Viserys never had a chance to play with them; Aerys had them burnt with the rest of his presents.

Rhaella winced as the babe kicked for the third time this morning. _He is a strong one_ , she thought, patting her stomach gently. _So much like Rhaegar. It is only fitting if I name this little one Rhaegar too._ She dreaded the nights Aerys visited her chambers. In the mornings after, she would be covered with burns, bite marks and new blossoming bruises. A month or two later, Rhaella would discover a dragon seed growing inside her womb. She had endured a number of pregnancies that resulted in children: first Rhaegar, followed by Shaena, Daeron, Aegon, Jaehaerys…and finally Viserys. Shaena was stillborn whilst both Daeron and Jaehaerys died in the same year of their births. Her Aegon fared no better. Not only did he die within a year, but he was two months premature.

"It won't be long before I hold you in my arms," Rhaella told the babe in her stomach. "You will be a son, would you not? Only sons kick so strongly!" Only Rhaegar had kicked as vigorously during her pregnancies.

She missed cradling a babe in her arms. When Viserys was born, Aerys had forbade her to touch him let alone carry him. Any other mother would have wept and begged; Rhaella knew too well of Aerys's cruel and unpredictable temper to either weep of beg. Rhaella could not wait until the maester places the babe in her arms. There will be no Aerys to inform; no arguments and tears over names; best of all, she will be able to hold the babe as long as she likes. She brightened at that thought and settled comfortably on her soft bed for the last day or two of confinement. Viserys visited thrice a day – he insisted it would be his right to hold his baby brother first – and Ser Willem Darry kept her well-informed of the precarious situation her family was in.

"Have you heard from Elia?" Rhaella questioned as Ser Willem appeared. "Are her children well?"

"They are still travelling to Braavos Your Grace," Ser Willem responded. "It is not safe for them to send letters at a time like this." His eyes shifted to the tall windows dashed with pelting rain. "Dragonstone will not be safe for long Your Grace," he said honestly. "The Usurper will be turning his attention here once he is crowned. Perhaps he already sent a fleet to attack."

Rhaella struggled to sit up. "I cannot flee! It is almost time…"

"My queen, we _must_ leave-"

"Ser Willem! There is a _storm_ raging outside the windows as we speak! That is what will protect us! If we try and flee, we will die. We cannot leave. Look at the sea, Ser Willem. We will drown if we try and sail away. Equally, the Usurper and his men cannot sail to Dragonstone in risk of perilous deaths. The Redwynes own the most powerful fleet in the Seven Kingdoms yes? They will not risk their men to come here in the name of the Usurper." Exhausted, she rested her head back against the pillow (more threadbare than before). "We will leave once the storm is over," she murmured more to herself than to Ser Willem. "Either way…Viserys and this little one must be safe."

She could see that Ser Willem was sceptical. _My child will not survive whether we flee or not,_ she thought unhappily. _If not by the Usurper's sword, then he will drown at sea. The gods have abandoned us._

"Shall I summon the maester, Your Grace?" he inquired.

Rhaella shook her head. "Not yet. When I need him, I will call for him. I think I might rest now." Yesterday she felt ready to fulfil the role as regent; today, she could hardly lift a finger. _Please Warrior, give my child strength. If not in arms, then in health. Please Mother, have mercy upon us. Let this child live. Let him have a good life, a happy life. Innocence is the most precious gift a child can have. Let my child believe in peace and not be told of this bloodshed._ For a second, she wondered if the child would be a girl. _If it is a girl, she will be a septa_ , Rhaella decided on sudden impulse. It had been quite some time since a Targaryen chose to embrace the path of the Faith rather than matrimony. "If a girl, she will be a septa," she said aloud. "Mother, have mercy upon us all."

* * *

 _Tears streamed down Rhaella's face as her handmaids clothed her in a gown of white laced with at least a dozen pearls. Around her slender neck was a pendant bearing the Targaryen sigil – a three headed dragon wrought from rubies as red as blood. This had belonged to your mother, her father Jaehaerys had said to her. All Targaryen queens had worn this when they wedded their Targaryen brothers or cousins. Only a Targaryen queen can wear this like how your future daughter will when she weds your son. His sickly face had flashed with a smile. Rhaella had been too upset to even feign a smile._

 _"I do not love him," Rhaella tried to explain. "I do not want to be his wife…"_

 _"Rhaella…it is for the good of our family. There was this – no, you are still young. All you must do is be happy, wed Aerys and continue our the Targaryen lineage. One day when you are a mother and wiser, you will understand the reason for your marriage to Aerys. You are brother and sister – loving him and bearing his children should be easy." He kissed her on the forehead. "Wipe those tears away," he advised, handing her a piece of clean linen cloth. "A bride should not look so unhappy on her wedding day my dear."_

 _The wedding ceremony flew by in a blur: her father walked her to the altar; she and Aerys said their vows between the two towering gilded statues of the Father and the Mother in the Great Sept of Baelor; they received their wedding gifts; they feasted and danced…until the bedding._

 _"Time for the bedding!"_

 _"The bedding!"_

 _Rhaella found herself lifted from her seat and carried towards Aerys's chambers, her clothes shredded off by the guest lords. Her gown…a shoe fell…the other shoe… by the time she reached the bed, she was stark naked. When Aerys appeared, he too had been stripped of all his clothes. He had drank a great deal of wine during the feast yet he maintained a disgruntled expression._

 _"Get on the bed," he said flatly._

 _Shivering with fear, Rhaella obeyed, praying for Aerys to be gentle. He had never been the brother she wanted. Kind, loving, protective…Aerys Targaryen was none. She closed her eyes as she felt him shift on top. Gentle he was not. She whimpered and cried as blood trickled between her legs…_

* * *

Another boom of thunder jolted Rhaella awake, her forehead clammy with sweat. _Trickling between my legs_ …she lifted the blanket. Her mattress was damp – her water had broke.

"Maester!" she called out as loudly as she could. Compared to the rumbling thunder, it was no more than a whisper. Fortunately, the maester had heard her call. "Your Grace?" he said, hurrying in.

"My water broke." For the last time.

"Ah. Stay calm, Your Grace. I will gather towels…" He left as quickly as he went in. Rhaella wondered if he had ever delivered a baby before. Aware she would face tighter contractions very soon, she summoned Ser Willem and Viserys. The old knight remained as calm as ever, her son frightened. His violet eyes darted here and there as they approached her. "My son," breathed Rhaella, caressing his soft hand. "My king…you will be a good boy, now will you? Will you be a good brother to the baby?"

Viserys nodded worriedly. "Will you…"

Rhaella shook her head vigorously. "The Stranger will not take me now," she said firmly. "If the Seven were kind, they would have granted life to your older siblings who did not live over a year. You hardly saw Rhaegar…once we are safe, I will tell you all about him."

"What do you mean Mother?"

Rhaella reached for her crown – silver studded with rubies and onyxes – and gave it to him. "Your lord father forbade me to bring all my jewels here," she said, cringing as the first contraction stabbed through her. "He said if I took all my jewels, I would sell them and escape to the Free Cities with you. He did not trust me." She laughed softly. "Your inheritance is the Seven Kingdoms my son, but all I can give you is my crown!" Another shot of pain jabbed her. _If my Shaena had lived, I would gift her with my pendant,_ she thought. "Promise me you will rid the realm of the Usurper and his traitorous dogs," she insisted. "The dragons will rule until the end of time. Say it."

"The-the dragons will rule until the end of time," Viserys stammered, almost shaking with fright.

"How?"

"With…with fire and blood."

Rhaella smiled, content. She looked at Ser Willem Darry. "You were right ser," she said quietly. "I was a fool to think the storm would save us from the Usurper and his men. His dogs are all rabid, the lot of them. You must take Viserys away from here. Take him to Braavos where Elia, Rhaenys and Aegon will be. Ensure he is safe from harm and when he is a man grown, wed him to either Rhaenys or a suitable princess or highborn maiden whose family is loyal to the Targaryens. Until he sires a child or two, do not reclaim his birth right. There must always be another dragon waiting in the wings."

"I understand Your Grace," said Ser Willem seriously. He hesitated. "What of yourself, Your Grace?"

"You said the eunuch smuggled Elia and my grandchildren away," Rhaella said thoughtfully. "I'm certain he will be able to smuggle me and the babe to Braavos as well. In a few months' time, we will all be safe in Braavos. If I die, I charge you Ser Willem Darry, to be King Viserys's guardian. There has never been a knight more loyal than you." She hissed as a third contraction twinged. "Ser Willem…go. Please. Take Viserys to safety. Raise him to be the prince Rhaegar was. It is not too late for him…"

Ser Willem bowed. "Aye Your Grace." Trembling, he kissed her hand for what seemed like the last time. The gloominess of this place is effecting you, Rhaella told herself as she breathed deeply. Think of the babe…think of the babe. Viserys followed suit and kissed her hand.

"I love you my son." Rhaella gritted her teeth as more pangs shot through her body. "Ser Willem. I believe it is time for you to leave with my son." It pained her to make the decision for Ser Willem to smuggle Viserys away with a few devoted men. As much as she wanted to believe her House still had a chance to regain the Iron Throne from the Baratheon usurper, she knew the Targaryen cause was all but lost. The Tyrells had bent the knee as did the Darrys, Rygers, Mootons and Goodbrooks. She suspected the Martells would've withdrew their forces by now – Prince Doran Martell, the Prince of Dorne, was too cautious to keep fighting for the Targaryen cause.

The maester returned, struggling under the weight of a stack of towels. Two servants accompanied him holding a basin of clear water. Rhaella breathed again and closed her eyes.

It was almost time.

* * *

Her vision blurred as she opened her eyes. For hours, she toiled and screamed before blackening out. Did the babe cry? Rhaella groaned as pain prickled all over her. Why does it hurt so much? She blinked. Her vision was still hazy.

"Your Grace." The maester's voice. She squinted and saw the vaguely familiar shape of the thin maester hovering near the side of her bed.

"Where…where is my child?" Her voice was weak. Too weak.

"King Viserys, Your Grace? He had already left Dragonstone under the care and protection of Ser Willem Darry, a wet nurse and four soldiers." The maester gently placed a damp linen cloth on her forehead. _It is cold…why am I feeling so warm? It is never warm here in Dragonstone…especially with another storm brewing outside…_

"No." Rhaella tried to move. More agony. "My…my baby…" Feverish, she closed her eyes again. She was so tired. She needed rest…

"Your Grace! I see fleets from the watchtower! They all bear the Baratheon flags!" A soldier ran in, despair breaking in his voice. "Your Grace! You must sail away! Dragonstone will be overrun with the Usurper's men by dawn!" So it is still midnight…or a little after that.

"Where is the fleet?" Rhaella croaked. _Why is there suddenly light?_ Bright light flooded in the room.

"Destroyed! Another storm hit over the night Your Grace, and the entire fleet was destroyed! Whilst anchored! You must sail away!"

But I am so tired…"Rhaegar?" she murmured, the figure of her eldest son, the silver haired, dark indigo eyed Crown Prince Rhaegar approaching her, holding out his hand. Following him with a scowl was Aerys, blood dripping everywhere he went. More familiar faces appeared. The Sword in the Morning…the White Bull…Prince Lewyn Martell…Ser Jonothor Darry…Ser Oswell Whent…Elia? She stood beside Rhaegar, a wailing babe in her arms and…Rhaenys standing – no, hiding – behind her. _No._ Ser Willem said they…

"My child," Rhaella choked for the final time before her beautiful Rhaegar touched her hand. A content smile, she went with him willingly.

* * *

 **Thanks for the reviews! Excellent fuel for me haha! So...anything could happen. All guesses welcome :) Coincidently there was a storm raging when I was writing the end of this chapter! Exam season is approaching, so I won't be able to update as frequently, but I'll try my best :)**


	4. Eddard II

"No." Ashara Dayne stared at him with a look mixed between horror, outrage and defiance. It eerily reminded Ned of Lyanna's expression when their father attempted to prevent her from riding after her she began her first flowering. You are a woman now, he had informed her. Women do not gallop across fields with mud splattering on their skirts.

"It is the king's orders," Ned said uncomfortably.

"The king expects me to wed my brother's killer?" Ashara laughed sharply. "It must be a jape – a not very funny one either."

"Lady Ashara, it is no jape. You can read it for yourself. The king expects us to be wedded and bedded before I am required back in King's Landing for his own wedding to Lady Catelyn Tully."

"If His Grace is committed on peace between the North, the Crownlands and Dorne Lord Stark, he would not mind at all if you wed another highborn Dornish maiden." She folded the letter. For a moment, Ned thought she would rip it in half. "Mayhaps you should wed Princess Arianne Martell?" Ashara suggested. "I hear she is wilful child. What better match than a wild wolf of the North and a wayward daughter of Dorne?"

"I thank you for your suggestion my lady, but I doubt her father, Prince Doran, will approve of it."

"Do you honestly believe my brother, the Lord of Starfall, will approve of me as your bride? Do you think he would cart me off to a cold, barren land far away? Our brother is dead and I am a maiden in mourning. I will not wed until I have mourned Arthur sufficiently."

"My lady, you are not Ser Arthur's wife."

"Arthur wedded a position in the Kingsguard. As his sister, I must do my duty and mourn him. Lord Stark, you of all people must understand that."

Ned sighed, gritting his teeth in frustration. Why must she be so stubborn? He never found enough strength to talk to obstinate women; he could not even win an argument against _Lyanna_. "Do you want your House to face the king's wrath?" he said rather testily. "My lady, I am a man of honour and I acclaim you for your determination to mourn your brother. However, I too have lost people I love in this war. My father was slowly roasted to death in his armour, my elder brother strangled, my sister also dead, Lord Willam Dustin, Ethan Glover, Martyn Cassel, Theo Wull, Ser Mark Ryswell, all slew outside the Tower of Joy…all the northmen who fought beside me in this bloody war." He snatched a quick breath and went on, "I have lost too many people I care about to count my lady. Once peace reigns in Westeros, we can all mourn for our loved ones. You are no fool, my lady. You want peace as much as I do. Play your part. Wed me as the king instructed and mourn your brother afterwards. If you wish for our marriage to be only in name, so be it. I have my younger brother as my heir already. I will not force you to go to Winterfell with me my lady," He looked at her steadily. "yet I yearn for us to be a true husband and wife for the good of peace."

Ashara bit her lip. _By the gods she could be Lyanna's twin. Lyanna always bit her lip when in doubt or in deep thought._ "I can return here any time I wish with or without your permission, my lord?" she challenged. "I will be allowed to bring a number of servants with me to Winterfell?"

Ned had not expected that. "Ah…yes, my lady. Will your servants and maids adjust to the cold of the North? Believe me my lady Ashara, it is nothing like your Dornish winters." _Are Dornish winters even cold?_ "If you so desire, we can draw up the terms of our marriage contract now."

"Do you not want to send a letter first to the Lord of Starfall, asking him for his consent and blessing to our marriage?" She smirked.

"That will not be necessary. It is the king's command."

Lady Ashara snorted. "For a man of honour, that is not very honourable, now is it? Wedding a highborn lady without the permission of her lord brother? You are in luck, Lord Stark. My brother is occupied at Sunspear. He will not return for at least two months."

"My lady, you consent to _willingly_ wed me?"

Ashara Dayne sighed. "The king orders us to wed," she said bluntly. "There is not much we can do. Why does the king demand me to marry you, Lord Stark? I doubt many ladies wed their brothers' killers."

"You are a highborn maiden, Dornish-"

"Lord Stark, you are a terrible liar."

His face as hot and red as the red chilli spices on his plate of greens last night, he muttered, "My apologies, my lady." Lady Ashara smiled wryly. Ned tapped the letter. "This had been written before Ser Arthur died. Lord Arryn is clever; he knows an alliance with Dorne is imperative. A good many of marriages between Dornish nobles and the king's allies will be needed, beginning with my marriage. The Martells will not relinquish one of their own – especially after the deaths of Prince Lewyn and Princess Elia – and knowing this, Lord Arryn turns to Dorne's powerful noble houses.

"Houses Allyrion, Blackmont and Yronwood are only a few other noble houses in Dorne, but Lord Arryn convinces the king to broker a betrothal between your House of Starfall and mine of Winterfell. I suspect the reasons were related to the Sword of the Morning being one of the deadliest warriors in the Seven Kingdoms and my position as the king's foster brother."

"I suppose you will not be a horrible husband," mused Ashara boldly. "You were kind enough to return Dawn in person. Many lords will melt Dawn down to smaller swords of their own. Besides, we do not have much of a choice, my lord. It is the king's command after all."

"I must ask you a delicate question-"

"I am still a maiden." She stared at him in the eye as if daring him to contradict her. "Will that be all, Lord Stark?"

Ned rubbed his hands together and asked hesitantly, "That night…when you danced with me. What did Brandon promise you?"

"Why do you think he promised me anything?"

No beautiful woman would dance with a man like me willingly. "I found it odd you consented to dance with me after he spoke to you."

"Merely a coincidence, my lord. Merely a coincidence." She smiled. "When do you propose we wed?"

"If it is not too bold of me my lady, I was considering tonight." Ashara's smile vanished. "We can wed in the sept if you so wish," Ned said quickly. "Lord Reed will witness our wedding ceremony in case any doubts of our marriage surfaces in the future. Is there a woman you trust to be witness too?"

"Tonight?" Lady Ashara repeated. "That is quite sudden."

"I am aware of it my lady. The sooner we wed…"

Ashara sighed and stood up. "So be it. You have the king expecting you back at King's Landing. I will go and talk to the septon. Perhaps I may even have time to find a suitable wedding gown. What of you, my lord? Will you take me as your wife in travel-stained clothes?" She sniggered sweetly as Ned blushed. Then she shrugged. "I do not care what you wear Lord Stark. Even if you wed me in your armour, I will take you as my husband."

Ned nodded. "I will…I will see you at the sept tonight."

* * *

The candles wavered as Ned entered Starfall's sept. Like all septs, there were seven walls painted with the faces of the Seven: the Father, Mother, Maiden, Smith, Warrior, Crone and the Stranger. The septon – an old man with sprouts of white hair and many freckles – was already standing between the altars of the Father and the Mother.

"My lord Stark. I see you found your way here without much trouble." Ashara gracefully glided towards him in a Dornish-style low-cut purple gown of flowing silks. She had kept on her star pendant and donned a new girdle, one of silver with grey diamonds. Her long, dark hair was left cascading down her slender shoulders up to her waist; she wore no jewelled hairnets, bands or wreaths. As she headed in his direction, he noticed a lilac cloak billowing out around her. It was a knight's cloak – most likely the Sword of the Morning's – and upon short notice, it would serve perfectly as a maiden's cloak. Ned himself had clasped a white cloak emblazoned with a running grey direwolf over his shoulders. The maids had managed to scrub away the splatters of dirt and blood during the hot afternoon; they did it exceedingly well. Taking Ned's arm, Ashara walked with him up to the septon, Ashara's gown shifting shades between light purple and dark. _She is indeed a gem of Dorne_ , Ned thought.

The septon cleared his throat. "You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection."

Breathing softly, Ned removed Ashara's cloak and draped his own over her shoulders, his hands slightly shaking as he clasped it together. He grasped her hand and the septon tied a silk ribbon around their hands. "In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one, for eternity," droned the septon. "Look upon one another and say the words."

Ned turned and gazed at Ashara Dayne who stared back expressionlessly. Will

Ned turned and gazed at Ashara Dayne who stared back expressionlessly. Will she find me an unpleasing husband? "Father, Smith, Warrior," he said solemnly in unison with Ashara, "Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger, I am hers and she is mine from this day until the end of my days." He kissed her lightly on the cheek – a proper kiss can wait.

The ceremony over, Ned and Ashara left for the Feasting Hall where they – along with little Lady Allyria Dayne and Howland – were served no more than five courses, all including spices or lemons. The first course consisted of stuffed green peppers with cheese and onion; the second was a hearty meal of roasted lamb drizzled with lemon and honey; it was followed by spicy duck dunked in a tub of sticky, dark sauce with swimming slices of onions; the penultimate serving contained small cakes with flavours alternating between lemon and cream; and the servants presented them with a bowl of cold fruit to finish off the wedding feast. It did not surprise Ned to see thinly cut lemons there.

"We will prepare to leave at dawn," Ned told his silent wife. "Do you have a castellan to rule Starfall in your stead?"

"Yes," came the quiet response. "He can take care of Allyria too."

"When it is safe, Lady Allyria can join us in Winterfell. I'll be more than happy to foster her-"

"No." She bit her lip. "It pains me to say this my lord, but no. My sister is too young to face your northern climate. She belongs here in Starfall. Arthur is dead, our brother remains at Sunspear and I will leave with you for King's Landing at dawn tomorrow. Allyria will stay here until she is old enough to be fostered. I may send for her at a later time."

Ned touched her hand. " _Ned_. Call me Ned. If it is the northern winters you are concerned about, what of Riverrun? Lord Tully will be glad to foster her."

"No. There must always be a Dayne in Starfall."

He stared at her. Noticing his look, Ashara asked, "Was it something I said? I mean no offence if I did."

"No," said Ned, swirling his cup of Dornish strongwine. "It's just my father oft said there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. At the tourney at Harrenhal, he wanted to leave one of us at home, but we all wanted to go…"

Ashara smiled forlornly. "What is done cannot be undone. Now we have a new

king on the Iron Throne and there will be peace for many winters to come. If you do not mind me asking, which Stark is in Winterfell as you speak?"

"My brother Benjen. I suppose he will find a Northern bride of his own when we return to Winterfell."

"Not a southron highborn maiden?"

"No. I wedded you for peace with the south; Benjen will wed a northern girl to strengthen our House's ties with the other northern lords."

"I thought you wedded me to obey the king's orders?"

"That too." He rose, Ashara, Allyria and Howland following suit. "My lady." He nodded at a sleepy Allyria. "My lord." He dipped his head at Howland. "My lady wife and I bid you goodnight."

* * *

The small party set off for King's Landing the next day as the sun slowly crept up the blanket of yellow, orange and red. Ashara had brought along twenty of her household knights and a maid by the name of Wylla. Ashara had tearfully bade her sister farewell before she left; she had not looked back at Starfall since. It had been too hazardous to sail, so they were forced to ride. Ned wondered if Robert would wait for his return before he wed Catelyn Tully. Waiting had never been one of Robert's strengths.

As they neared the remains of the Tower of Joy, Ashara had fallen back with Wylla, leaving Ned a chance to speak to the little crannogman. "I wish you had rode back earlier," Ned said softly.

"You would have been alone," Howland Reed responded. "Who would have helped you bury the poor messenger?"

"I admire your loyalty – I am grateful for it – but the roads to Winterfell are treacherous, especially now as peace is yet to be achieved."

"There is naught for you to worry about. The maester was aware of his orders and he is well-guarded. My two men may not have been brawny or large, but I can assure you, they are clever, skilled and trustworthy. You have also written a letter to your brother Benjen, have you not? By the time we reach King's Landing, the maester and your boy will no doubt be close to Winterfell. Once they are near the Riverlands, all will be well. It is their journey through Dorne and the Reach that I am more concerned about. If something occurs, the maester is aware that he can visit Highgarden for a spot of recovery. Maesters treat Oldtown as their home and Lord Hightower rules over it; he himself serves Lord Tyrell whose seat is Highgarden. All will be well, my lord."

 _If only I can be as confident as you Lord Reed._

"What did you name him?" Howland inquired.

"Jon," said Ned absently, thinking of the prospect of his future brood of sons and daughters running around Winterfell laughing, some with his grey eyes and others with Ashara's violet eyes. He longed to return home. He had more than his share of war and was more than ready to spend the rest of his life in the North. _I will rule the North in the name of King Robert Baratheon. Traitors and deserters will be executed, loyal men commended._

"Does Lady Stark know of him?"

"Not yet. She will eventually. I trust you will keep all this to yourself, Lord Reed? I ask you of this as a friend, not your liege lord."

The faithful crannogman nodded. "Aye. You did not even have to ask, my lord. I know when to keep my mouth shut."

The journey from Starfall to King's Landing took less time than Ned expected. He had thought Ashara and Wylla would be exhausted when they arrived, but they had shown no signs of fatigue. _Ashara is as strong as a Mormont_ , thought Ned as he remembered Lord Jeor Mormont's stout sister Maege, who favoured the spiked mace to a sewing needle. _She will survive the North; she is no fragile flower from the garden of southron highborn maidens._

As Ned rode under the Red Keep's portcullis with Ashara at his side, he was hit with mixed feelings. The last time Ned rode in the Red Keep, he found the oathbreaker Jaime Lannister sitting on the throne, the body of the Mad King Aerys II Targaryen at his feet. Ned wondered if Robert had sent him to the Wall yet. His displeasure was confirmed when the oathbreaker himself sauntered out from a great oaken door. Ned grinded his teeth in the manner similar to Stannis Baratheon as Jaime Lannister walked up to him, his mop of golden hair sparkling under the sunlight like strands of gold, his eyes glimmering like emeralds as he smiled at Ned and Ashara. "Lord Stark," the oathbreaker said with a smile that cut like a knife. "You have finally returned! Lord Tully was frantic you have been killed by a horde of angry Dornishmen and he will witness your funeral rather than his precious daughter's wedding." He smirked. "His Grace requests you in the Great Hall immediately. Ah!" His smile broadened as he caught sight of his wife. "Lady Ashara Dayne! Lady Ashara Stark now, isn't it?"

"Ser Jaime," Ashara acknowledged, dismounting her horse. "You are well?"

"Quite well my lady." He smiled charmingly. "His Grace will be eager to see you as well. Is that Lord Reed I see?" Giving him a suspicious look, Ned headed to the Great Hall, Jaime Lannister's chattering nothing but the buzzing of a fly. He felt his hand squeezed.

"Face your ghosts Ned," whispered Ashara. "You cannot enjoy life while tied to the ghosts of your past." He nodded. _Our marriage may not be as unbearable as I thought it would be_. He smiled to himself. It was the first time Ashara called him Ned without hesitation.

The doors swung open and Ned was blinded by a flurry of courtiers. Brown-haired Tyrells huddled near the doors, golden-haired Lannisters stood proudly near the foot of the throne, auburn-haired Tullys opposite them…sitting on the throne with a grin on his ruddy face, King Robert Baratheon boomed. "Ned! What took you so long? It has been weeks!" He almost jumped from the dais as he strode towards Ned and pulled him into a hug with a hearty pat on the back. "I thought you would never show your face!" he chuckled. "Tywin Lannister here had the temerity to suggest you abandoned me for your cold Winterfell! That will never happen eh, Ned?"

Ned smiled at his old friend. "Have you met my wife, the Lady Ashara?"

Ashara curtsied. "Your Grace." Robert bade her to stand and kissed her hand chivalrously. "My lady," he grinned. "You are fortunate to have Ned as a husband! Solemn as an old man and probably no fun in bed, but you know he will remain faithful to you." He winked at her before turning his attention back to Ned. "You remember my betrothed, Lady Catelyn Tully?" _She was to be my good-sister at one time_. Ned nodded at Lady Catelyn. "My lady."

"My lords and ladies!" Robert's voice bounced off the walls. "Now that my good friend Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, has finally returned to court, I am pleased to announce my wedding to Lady Catelyn of House Tully will occur next week! My lady Catelyn and I have waited long enough!" He roared with laughter as the other lords and ladies joined him.

"What of Lord Stannis?" inquired Ned, looking around for Robert's grim-faced and teeth-grinding younger brother.

"Lord Stannis is still sailing from Dragonstone." A plump, bald man in bright purple silks stepped forward, bringing the smell of lilacs and perfume with him. He rubbed his hands – as soft as a woman's – together and spoke. "Have you not heard, Lord Stark? Lord Stannis has captured Dragonstone without a single drop of blood and is sailing back as we speak with two valuable pieces of cargo. Can you imagine what he brings with him, Lord Stark?"

" _Varys_." Ned did not bother hiding his contempt for the wily eunuch.

"Stannis has captured the last of the dragonspawn!" said Robert triumphantly, grinning from ear to ear. "Once he leads them here in chains, _you_ , my friend, will finally extract your revenge for your dead father and brother." Ned felt his throat tighten. "I honour you Ned," Robert continued, his blue eyes shining, "with the gift of two Targaryen dragonspawn. You will have the honour of killing them in any manner you find fit."

* * *

 **I noticed a significant decrease in reviews...I hope you still enjoy reading the story all the same :) The next chapter is ready to go, so more reviews, the quicker I update ;)**


	5. Ashara I

"I honour you Ned," the king had said gruffly, his blue eyes sparkling like the sapphires in Lady Catelyn Tully's auburn hair, "with the gift of two Targaryen dragonspawn. You will have the honour of killing them in any manner you find fit." Ashara felt her husband tense up. Killing Targaryens is the last thing Ned will want to do, she thought, squeezing his hand again.

"No," Ned said coldly. "I will not kill innocent children."

"Ned! Your father, brother and sister are dead at the hands of all those dragon bastards! I'm giving you the chance for revenge!"

"I will never forget their deaths, but there has been far too much bloodshed. It is time for peace. Killing two Targaryen children will not bring them back. What of all the men that fought for us? Will killing Targaryens bring them back too? Killing foes in war is necessary; killing for fun is despicable, but killing children is bloody barbaric. No, Your Grace. I will not kill Targaryens for you."

The king's face reddened. "It is not for me! It is for your family!"

Ned shook his head flatly. "No, Your Grace. There is no honour in killing little children. Would you kill them yourself?"

"That is a-"

" _Will you kill them yourself, Your Grace?_ "

"Give me the honour, Your Grace." A portly man of average height with a piggy face and small pig-like eyes stepped forward. In a high, thin voice, the man said again, "Give me the honour, Your Grace. I am more than willing to kill Targaryen dragonspawn for you."

"Ser Amory Lorch." Disgust entered Ned's voice. "Do you enjoy killing babes and young children?"

"Only those traitorous to His Grace, Lord Stark."

"Only those – are you mad, Lorch? How are children traitorous?"

"Enough!" The king's eyes blazed with irritation. "Ned, I understand you had a long journey. Go and rest. Chambers have been prepared for you and your wife. Lorch, go and make yourself useful somewhere. Lord Lannister! Send your man back to Casterly Rock or somewhere. I do not have the time to deal with him at the moment. Ned, go and rest. _Now_. Take your lady wife with you." Ned bowed and Ashara curtsied. King Robert Baratheon was not what she had expected. She had never thought a king would keep child killers in his court. Perhaps Robert did not have the chance to sentence Lorch yet.

"Ned?" ventured Ashara cautiously.

"I will not see more children dead," her husband muttered, clenching his fists with anger. "So many little ones have died already – does Robert not see it, or does he simply not care? I thought he would be a better man than this. I will not kill the last two Targaryen children."

"Give him a week. He has not been on the throne for long. All new rulers feel uneasy with potential claimants alive."

"I fear what the Lannisters and Tyrells are whispering in his ear. Especially the Lannisters. They murdered Rhaenys, Aegon and Elia and will not be afraid to get their hands stained with more Targaryen blood. Once Robert weds Catelyn Tully, I will confront him. He must rid the land of Lorch and Clegane. Even the Wall is too good for them. It is dishonourable if he allows them to live. I hope he sees sense quickly."

"Ned…rest. We travelled for weeks and you are exhausted. We need you in better spirits tomorrow." She smiled encouragingly at him. "How else will you survive this pit of snakes?"

Ned said dryly. "The stags are surrounded by a growing pride of lions in a field of growing roses with hidden thorns. The falcons hover over the stags, but how long will they be able to protect them? The trouts splash and swim in the rivers, helplessly unable to help as the lions rip the stags into shreds. Then there is the pack of wolves on the other side of the river bank. I won't be surprised if there are serpents hidden in the grass, ready to strike when the time is ripe. I will be happier when he leave for Winterfell."

"King Robert is your childhood friend. He will be a fool to abandon you. Lord Arryn will never have your friendship dissolved."

"If Robert decides to banish me, there is little Lord Arryn can do. Robert is the king; no longer the headstrong boy he fostered at the Eyrie." He sounded sad. "I found our time together in the Eyrie to be filled with the most joyful memories. I hope Robert thinks it too."

Ashara patted his hand dutifully. _I should not act this way to my brother's killer. I should be spitting at him like a hissing cat, not calming him with soothing words. By the gods, will I allow love to overcome the fact he killed Arthur? I am a terrible sister._ As she went with Ned to their chambers, she felt her emotions twist themselves in a knot. In the span of a few weeks, her brother had died, she met his killer and then married him. When did she speak kindly to him? Was it before or after he swore a number of vows regarding his faithfulness and honour she vaguely remembered? _This is for peace_ , she reminded herself. _Even if I yearn him dead, it is far too late. The king will have my head if he discovers his best friend dead at the hands of a spiteful and avenging wife_.

"I will have a servant bring us food," said Ned, breaking the few minutes of silence. "You must rest too."

"Where is Lord Reed?"

"I think Robert did not see him. Howland had always been good at hiding and blending when he is not wanted."

"You and Lord Reed are good friends?"

Ned opened the door and gazed at her reminiscently. "Without Howland Reed, it would've been your brother returning to you in blazing glory."

* * *

Two servants brought in breakfast the next morning with a message notifying Ned and Ashara of Stannis Baratheon's arrival and their presence required in the Great Hall in half an hour. Ashara had never set foot outside Dorne except for the tourney at Harrenhal and even then, found the cuisine slightly odd to her usual Dornish food. Today, she was served a fresh loaf of bread with cream stew and a cup of sweet plum wine. Delicious.

On a full stomach, Ashara left for the Great Hall with Ned, who hardly touched his stew or wine. She made him eat two slices of bread at least. Upon arrival, she immediately noticed a larger crowd of lords and ladies. Making their way to the front, Ashara caught a glimpse of a silver-blonde haired boy holding a sleeping babe swaddled in rags. Standing at the foot of the throne with his arms crossed was a large, sinewy man of looming height and broad shoulders. His dark blue eyes bore at certain lords as he kept a grim expression. Ashara noted he only had a fringe of black hair and his beard was close-cropped across his large jaw. That must be Lord Stannis Baratheon; only he would be grim at a time when victory was his. Beside him was a man with brown hair and eyes and a beard peppered with grey. If the first joints of the fingers of his left hand were not missing, she would not have recognised him as the former smuggler and infamous Onion Knight, Ser Davos Seaworth.

"Lord Stark." Stannis had noticed Ned. "I take your mission to Dorne was more than successful?" His gaze shifted to Ashara. "His Grace did tell me you wedded a Dornish noblewoman. He neglected to mention it was Ser Arthur Dayne's sister. My lady." He nodded at her.

Ashara nodded back. "Lord Stannis."

"His Grace King Robert Baratheon the First of His Name!"

Ashara curtsied with the other ladies as the king marched to the throne, his lips curved in a grin. He slapped his brother on the shoulder. "Well done," he said jovially. "I am proud to call you my brother. Only you would bring them back to my alive. If I sent Ned, he would've freed them or even helped them escape. If I ordered one of Lord Tywin's men, they would butcher them to death. Well done, my brother. You've done your duty well."

Stannis nodded, as serious as ever. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"Now…who do we have here?" He glared down at the scowling boy. "Where is that Targaryen bitch queen? I had hoped to fuck her before burning her at the stake or removing her head."

"She died, Your Grace."

"Eh? You killed her? I didn't think you had it in you!" He snorted.

Stannis stared at him and said sombrely. "Rhaella Targaryen died of childbed fever, Your Grace. She died giving birth to her daughter."

"How unfortunate. One dragon bitch dead after giving birth a dragon whelp. If only you killed her before she gave birth, Brother."

Stannis looked appalled. "I will never kill a pregnant woman."

"More's the pity. Ser Gregor would do it, Perhaps Lorch would too. Ned!" The king turned to Ashara's silent husband. "My gifts to you! Kill the dragonspawn in any manner you find fit. Burn them, stab them, hang them, I don't care. I expect to see them dead by the evening. Guards! Take the dragonspawn to the black cells. Perhaps after a night there they will show fear. Get them out of my sight! Now, to business!" He settled on the throne and waited for the lords and ladies to cease whispering. "For his loyalty and aid in securing Dragonstone and capturing the last of the dragonspawn, I name my brother Stannis Baratheon the Lord of Storm's End," he decided, "he will also have a place in my small council as the Master of Ships. Well done brother. I hope to see you at my wedding." A few of the courtiers snickered. _Lord Stannis at a wedding?_ Ashara thought, watching Stannis Baratheon grind his teeth and thank his brother. _I wager a hundred gold dragons to see him laugh._

"Furthermore," the king continued, "he will be Lord Protector of Dragonstone until a suitable lord can be found, and our brother Renly will be the Lord of the Rainwood once he is of age. I have also elected to forgive House Connington for siding with the dragonspawn and Ser Ronald Connington will keep his lands on the condition nine tenths of them are given to the crown. Ser Ronald will further lose the lordship of Griffin's Roost but will be the first Knight of Griffin's Roost instead.

"After my wedding, my Hand, Lord Arryn, will leave for Dorne to return the bones of Lewyn Martell and broker peace with Dorne's prince." He paused and shot a meaningful look at his old Hand. "The last we want is more war," he added grudgingly. "Lord Varys will maintain his position as the Master of Whispers as Pycelle will as the Grand Maester. Despite fighting on the side of the Mad King, Ser Barristan Selmy will remain in my Kingsguard and will be Lord Commander. For _Lord Stark's_ benefit, I will say again that Ser Jaime Lannister will continue as a member of the Kingsguard as he had committed no crime warranting death or the Wall." Ashara glanced at Ned. He had closed his eyes for a moment, revealing nothing. She was glad he did not argue or raise his voice with protest.

* * *

"Lady Stark." Ashara turned as she saw Catelyn Tully approach. She smiled and nodded. "Lady Catelyn."

The future queen nodded back and beamed warmly. "How are you finding your married life, Lady Stark?" she asked, her sapphire blue eyes sparkling with sincerity. "You are fortunate to have Lord Stark as husband."

"I did not expect to be Lord Stark's wife," said Ashara honestly, immediately taking a liking to Lady Catelyn Tully. "I always thought I would be wedded to some Dornish lord my brother or father wishes to ally himself with, not the great Lord of Winterfell!"

Catelyn laughed like a lark. "I too am betrothed to a man I did not expect," she said agreeably. "Firstly to Lord Brandon Stark, then to your husband – when he was unmarried of course – and finally to the king. I remember you from the feast at the tourney at Harrenhal, Lady Stark. You danced with Lord Stark, did you not?" She thought for a moment. "And Ser Barristan the Bold."

"You have an excellent memory Lady Catelyn. The tourney at Harrenhal seems nothing but a speck in the past."

Catelyn darkened. "A memorable speck."

Ashara nodded in agreement. "Every girl must be envious of you. The great Robert Baratheon is king and you will be his queen! You must be counting down the days till the wedding."

"Yes." She sounded strained, "though my father seems to look forward to it more than I do."

"If I may be bold, you will be a wonderful queen, Lady Catelyn."

Catelyn Tully smiled at her. "Thank you Lady Stark." She hesitated. "I know this may be too soon, but I will be honoured if you will serve – even for a short time – as one of my ladies. I wish for us to be…friends. I am asking you this as a bewildered woman, not a future queen."

"I am honoured to be your friend, Lady Catelyn. However, my husband is more keen on returning to Winterfell. If the king was not his friend, he wouldn't stay here longer than he desires – he might not have even stopped here."

"Do not fret about Lord Stark. The king will convince him to stay here for a few more months, I'm certain of it. What is the Stark saying again? There must always be a Stark in Winterfell? Lord Stark's younger brother still remains in Winterfell. There is no hurry for Lord Stark to return."

"It sounds as if you find King's Landing your home already!"

"My home is with my family." It echoed eerily like the words a child would learn from a tutor. Ashara faintly remembered the Tully words. Something to do with family…"Family, Duty, Honour," Catelyn said, as if reading her thoughts. "I do not know how to stay by them once I wed the king. Lady Stark, you probably heard of the king's numerous…natural children. What if he decides on a whim to bring them here? I cannot possibly be a mother to them!" Ashara listened and sympathised with her. On the way to King's Landing, Ned had told her of Robert's large appetite for women. She felt sorry for the kind-hearted Catelyn Tully and prayed the Seven will be kind to her.

"You will be queen," said Ashara helpfully.

" _Queen_ ," said Catelyn bitterly. "Being queen means naught to me. Oh, it is a great prize for those like Cersei Lannister, but to me, it is nothing. I still marry a great lord; I will still bear him his sons; I will still be mistress of a castle. Married to King Robert only means I will have to tolerate his womanising ways. If Cersei Lannister yearns to be queen so much, I would gladly give it to her…my father will never allow that."

"You will be a fairer queen than Cersei Lannister." Ashara had glimpsed the strikingly beautiful Cersei Lannister yesterday and instantly disliked her. Cersei's brilliant green eyes held nothing but contempt and her lips were curved in either a sneer or a scowl. She felt sorry for whoever was chosen to be Cersei Lannister's husband. The poor man would no doubt die from her sharp words mere minutes after wedding her.

"Thank you Lady Stark."

"Call me Ashara please. We are friends, are we not?"

Catelyn smiled. "If that is the case, then call me Catelyn. I always thought I was destined for the cold North, not King's Landing."

"You will be the leading lady at court, Catelyn. Do not think of the future. Enjoy the present. Nobles and commoners alike will clamber to you as their queen-to-be. No one will object to you as queen…except one."

"Cersei Lannister."

The two of them laughed like young maidens rather than a wife and a future queen – that was how Stannis Baratheon found them.

"Lady Ashara Stark," the solemn Stannis grunted. "Lady Catelyn. Both of you are requested in the Great Hall." He was clearly unhappy to serve as his brother's herald. "If you will come with me." He stalked silently to the Great Hall, Catelyn and Ashara behind him. The walls were thick, but before the guards could open the doors, Ashara heard loud arguing from inside. She groaned. It was only their second day in King's Landing and Ned had struck a second quarrel about the last remaining Targaryens with the king. Glancing at Stannis, she noticed he looked more tired than sullen. "My lord," said Catelyn cautiously. "Is something amiss? I cannot help but notice-"

"Targaryens!" snapped Stannis grouchily. "Every morning and every evening, all I hear is His Grace growling about them as dragonspawn and abominations in our world! Has he forgotten our grandmother was a Targaryen?" Any other lord would apologise for his abruptness, but Stannis, a man of bluntness and honesty, said nothing more and marched into the Great Hall. Catelyn shrugged at Ashara and followed, Ashara herself trailed in, muttering a quick prayer for Ned to cease arguing. How long will the king endure Ned's obstinacy?

Ashara was not surprised as saw the Targaryen boy clutching his baby sister stand in front of the throne again. _So much for keeping them in the black cells for the night,_ she mused. The king's face was red with fury as he roared at Ned, "I cannot allow those dragonspawn to remain alive!"

"They are children Robert!" Ned said in frustration.

"What if that bastard Rhaegar won, eh? Do you think he will spare Renly? All those fucking Targaryens think of is fire and fucking blood!"

"You are not a monster, Robert. Show them clemency. Let the people think of you as a merciful king who will not murder innocent children bearing the cursed name of Targaryen. Would you rather be remembered as Robert the Good or Robert the Child Killer?"

"For fuck's sake Ned! I am your king!"

"And I am your friend." Ned had quietened considerably. "I _fought_ for you; my men died for you. I married Lady Ashara Dayne on your orders. I long to return home to Winterfell, but I will stay here until you deem me fit to return. I will not complain…only if you swear by the old gods and the new that you will not shed a single drop of Targaryen blood." Stannis cleared his throat.

"Long last," the king grumbled, not even bothering to greet his betrothed. He walked to Catelyn and presented her a silver bracelet. Upon closer examination, Ashara saw the silver chain connected to a small stag wrought from onyxes as black as coal, a dragon formed from rubies as red as blood, a turtle fashioned from emeralds as green as lush grass and a trout made from pearls as white as snow. "This is a family heirloom," he explained, slipping it around her wrist. "All the Baratheon Ladies of Storm's End wear it from the time of my grandmother Rhaelle. After she added her father's sigil, it became custom for wives to add theirs too. The turtle is of House Estermont, my mother's House. As we are to wed, I thought it fitting to add yours, my lady. A silver trout from House Tully. Stannis, is not Lady Catelyn beautiful with our late mother's bracelet?"

Stannis's lips tightened and he stayed silent. Robert snorted. "I hope you learn to compliment your own future wife soon enough." He glanced at the Targaryen children, turned to Ned and Ashara and sighed, defeated. "You will remain here as my Master of Laws?" he challenged. "You will not run back to Winterfell after my wedding with Lady Catelyn?"

Ashara nodded tentatively with her husband. Grumbling unhappily, Robert looked at Stannis. "Escort my betrothed back to her chambers," he ordered. "Ned, Ashara and I have matters to discuss." He waited until Stannis and Catelyn left and said promptly. "You will tell the court Ser Ilyn Payne accidently killed the boy when he wouldn't stop screaming down in the black cells and the babe was too weak to survive – no, don't interrupt me Ned – a day down there. Every lord will believe the word of the honourable Lord Stark. Do what you want with the girl; best to kill her, but if you want to keep her, ensure I never see or hear her name again. If I catch a whim of her alive, I will stab her myself. As for the boy…show me a body before I wed Catelyn Tully." He reached for his cup of wine on the table nearby. "If you don't…I have no choice but to declare you my enemy and a traitor to the realm."

* * *

 **Thanks for telling me in reviews and PMs that Dawn wasn't of Valyrian steel! It should be fixed by now :) There will definitely be a time skip, but I don't know when just yet... As for Jon, again, I haven't fully decided, so I guess you'll have to wait and see! As Stannis received Storm's End, I didn't know what lordship Renly will be given, so I just decided on Rainwood; he is still a child at the moment, so there's enough time for him to receive a more important lordship when he is of age. Since Ashara is only a mentioned character in ASOIAF, I wasn't too certain on how to write her in her POV, but I hope it's okay for her first POV but there'll be always room for improvement! :)**


	6. Hoster

From his honoured place to the left of the bride, Hoster Tully could not stop smiling. The day had finally come when his beloved Cat had wed the king. It was too good to be true; his own daughter queen! He was thrilled when Lord Rickard Stark offered his heir Lord Brandon, as husband for his Cat. Yes the North would be cold, but House Stark was an influential and powerful Great House. With his House united with House Stark, the Riverlands could be more protected; the Riverlands had an unfortunate history of serving as battlefields.

"A toast! To Their Graces King Robert and Queen Catelyn!"

Hoster raised his jewelled cup and drank deeply. Ahh, Arbor gold. He looked at his radiant daughter and smiled. "Queen Cat." He sipped again. _I should have betrothed Lysa to one of the Redwyne twins,_ he thought. _An endless supply of Arbor gold would be an excellent clause in the marriage contract. It would've occurred if the Blackfish did as he was told and married Bethany Redwyne years ago_. Thinking of his stubborn brother darkened his mood.

He shook his brother from his mind. It would do him no good to brood over him. Today was Cat's day. Looking prettier than ever, Cat's handmaids had left her auburn hair flowing down her back, decorated with nothing but the silver tiara Robert gave her as one of three betrothal gifts. Matching the belt of rubies and pearls, Cat wore a necklace of rubies as dark and murky as the red in House Tully's sigil and pearls as snowy as the white field of House Stark's sigil. She had donned a dark blue gown lined with red Myrish lace and after the ceremony, the Baratheon cloak of yellow velvet and a stag sewed from black onyxes. Sweet Queen Cat was a splendid sight. Robert would be a fool if he did not find her beautiful enough to bed.

Like every other lord and lady, Hoster had heard rumours of Robert's large appetite for women. It was further confirmed when he spoke to Jon Arryn who told him of the bastard girl Robert left in the Vale. Hoster himself had never lain with another woman apart from his beloved Minisa; siring bastards went against his House Words. Family, Duty, Honour. He hoped Robert's mountain of bastards would cease upon his marriage to Cat. _Mayhaps Eddard Stark would've been a better choice as husband,_ Hoster mused. _He is certainly an honourable man and one of good morals. If he did not have those grey eyes or bear the name Stark, I would have mistaken him for an Arryn! Ned Stark certainly learnt from his foster father. A pity King Robert did not._

Smacking his lips after draining his cup of Arbor gold, Hoster speared a slice of roasted goose with his knife and began chewing it as he watched Robert roar with appreciation at the suckling pig drenched in plum sauce, an apple clenched in its jaws. "A Fossoway has found herself in the grip of a Crakehall!" he heard the king boom. At the trestle tables below, both the Crakehalls of Crakehall and the red apple Fossoways of Cider Hall stiffened. Robert only snorted louder, slapping silent Stannis on the back. In cruel – and rather poor – jest, one of the servants had placed onion pie in front of him.

"Lord Tully, how are you finding the roasted goose?"

"Tender enough," Hoster answered, nodding at Lord Jon Arryn who sat on Edmure's empty seat. After nibbling on a fingerfish crisped in breadcrumbs and spooning up some creamy chestnut soup, Edmure had went off to dance with a pretty Tyrell maiden in green. _A Tyrell would be an excellent choice of wife for my son_. Mace Tyrell had no daughters of yet; Edmure's dance partner must be one of his cousins or nieces. The Tyrells prosper in radiance and mass like the many roses in Highgarden. "Are you enjoying the feast, Lord Arryn?" he inquired, stabbing another piece of roasted goose.

"It is an admirable way to unite Robert with his lords," Jon Arryn replied, his blue eyes scanning the lower tables like a hawk – or more a falcon befitting his House sigil. "Rather than bloodshed, Robert dines with his nobles at a wedding feast, illuminating peace between the houses great and small. A pity the Prince of Dorne refused to come." He sighed gloomily. "I hope I will survive the journey to Dorne and back. I fear I am not getting any younger." A spark of apprehension appeared in his eyes. "It is not too late-"

"No," Hoster cut through bluntly like a knife through freshly churned butter. "I thought we have already discussed this, Lord Arryn. You swore a vow by the old gods and the new that you will wed my Lysa. She is a beautiful and sweet girl, a little shy, but fertile. Is that not what you need, Lord Arryn? A young, fertile wife to bear you the much-needed sons?"

"Lord Tully…do you not wish to wed your daughter to a more handsome and younger man than I? What about ah, Lord Stannis Baratheon? He is now the Lord of Storm's End and the king's brother. Your House will be forever united with House Baratheon; one daughter wedded to the king, the other wedded to his current heir presumptive."

"The Lannisters may think that a wonderful idea, but I do not. Cat's wedding secured an alliance between the Riverlands and King's Landing. Strategically an alliance with the Westerlands would be beneficial – it would have occurred if Ser Jaime Lannister did not join the bloody Kingsguard – but my daughter needs a whole man as husband, not a _dwarf_."

"What about-"

"Edmure and Cersei? I rejected the dwarf as husband for my daughter; Tywin Lannister refused Cersei for my son." His goblet refilled, he drank more and went on, "That is not the point, Lord Arryn. We agreed that once Robert is king, your betrothal to Lysa will be announced and you will wed her after Robert wedded Catelyn." He nodded at Robert kissing a happy Catelyn's hand. "They are wedded and will soon be bedded. What are your House words again, Lord Arryn? As High As Honour. Will you break your word, my lord?"

"My lord…why are you so insistent on the match? Surely there are other lords more than willing to wed a daughter of Riverrun."

Hoster stood up. "Lord Arryn, please come for a walk with me." Jon obliged and the two leisurely strolled out of the Great Hall and towards the courtyard. "No one will wed Lysa." Hoster lowered his voice. "There was a...ah, situation involving Lysa and my former ward, the Baelish boy."

"Baelish? He is from the Fingers is he not?"

"Yes, yes. I befriended the boy's father in the War of the Ninepenny Kings and foolishly decided to foster the boy in Riverrun alongside my own children. It will come as no surprise to you my lord, if I tell you he impregnated Lysa. I promptly sent him away and made Lysa drink moon tea, but with the loss of maidenhead, I will no longer be able to find her a good match.

"I regret not informing you this earlier, but as you are quite reluctant now, I thought it best to tell you. I trust you are a man of your word and can keep this a secret between us?"

The king's Hand nodded slowly. "I cannot go back on my word," he admitted with a sigh. "Are you _certain_ you wish for your daughter to wed me, Lord Tully? I have the power to find her a more suitable match now I am Hand of the King. In a matter of days, I can arrange for Lady Lysa to marry a good man, perhaps one of the Tyrells or a Lannister, or maybe even to Lord Stark's younger brother. You desired for an alliance with the North, did you not? I can easily arrange it if you still wish it, my lord."

" _You_ are a good man, Lord Arryn." _Wedding you, Lysa will be the Lady of the Eyrie; wedding Benjen Stark, she will be nothing but the wife of Lord Stark's only surviving, younger brother._

"I cannot change your mind?" Lord Arryn sounded beaten.

Hoster shook his head firmly. "My lord, I will be more than honoured to have you as my good-son and ally. I have refused the offers from a good many of my lord bannermen including Lords Blackwood and Bracken."

Jon Arryn sighed again. "So be it, Lord Tully. With your consent, I will marry your daughter two days before I depart for Dorne."

* * *

Hoster stroked his brown-reddish beard thoughtfully as he listened to Lord Leyton Hightower suggest further points to Edmure and his daughter Lady Leyla Hightower's pending marriage contract. The Hightowers were one of the oldest and proudest of the Great Houses; Edmure was fortunate to find himself soon-to-be betrothed to one.

"Two new trading routes between Oldtown and the Riverlands will be created after Ser Edmure and Leyla wed," decided Lord Leyton, wiping his mouth with a cloth. "Furthermore, their wedding will be held here."

"Here?" Hoster arched an eyebrow. "Why not at Riverrun or Oldtown? I have always wanted to visit Oldtown one day, and what better occasion than to go and witness my heir's wedding to your daughter?"

Leyton frowned and shrugged. "I don't see why not. Oldtown it is. I suppose I can arrange for Ser Edmure and Leyla to wed in the Starry Sept. Perhaps after they wed, they can spend a few days in Highgarden? My daughter Alerie is the wife of Lord Tyrell. I'm confident she will be more than willing to host her sister and good-brother in Highgarden for a couple of days. Whilst they dwell there, I am more than happy to arrange for one my sons to show you around Oldtown and our family seat, the Hightower. Maybe in a year or two, I will pay a visit to the Riverlands in return."

"Fair enough. I am quite eager to see the Starry Sept."

"A splendid sight, Lord Tully. A splendid sight. Before you ask my lord, I can assure you Leyla is a woman grown and ripe to bear children." He smiled broadly at Hoster. "It won't be long before there is a school of little Tullys swimming in Riverrun, eh? All as handsome and lovely as your son and daughters." He nodded at Cat discreetly. "Very beautiful."

"And I am assured of your military support if the need of it arises?"

"Yes, as I am assured of yours?"

Hoster nodded. "Excellent. Now all we need to seal our alliance is to wed my son and your daughter. Will there be anything else, Lord Hightower?"

"One small matter…"

"Yes?"

"Perhaps when you have a litter of grandsons, you will consent for one to be trained as a maester in Oldtown? By then, I will be old and longing to see a Tully grandson near me."

"That will be up to the child, Lord Hightower. I cannot promise an unborn child to be a maester of yet. What if Lady Leyla only gives Edmure one son like my late wife gave me? However, I will consider one of my future grandsons to squire for your heir when the time comes."

Leyton Hightower nodded in agreement. "Very well." He raised his goblet and toasted. "May the gods bless our alliance!" Hoster clinked goblets with him and both men drank deeply.

"Is the Lady Leyla here at court?" inquired Hoster. Slight disappointment bit him as Leyton shook his head. "King's Landing is not safe for maidens. She is in the Hightower with her younger sisters."

"Very wise." _Who will be foolish enough to bed your daughter?_ The fool will find the Wall merciful compared to being gelded. "Come to Riverrun with your family after the king's wedding celebrations," he suggested hopefully. "Edmure and Lady Leyla will have an opportunity to meet and converse with each other before they wed. Chaperoned of course." Leyton frowned. "They will still wed on the agreed day," Hoster added hastily, "I am not one to break my word. I just thought it would be nice for Edmure and your daughter to spend time together in Riverrun before their wedding. Lady Leyla will reside in Riverrun after she weds Edmure; why not show her around now? I believe Lady Leyla will grow to love Riverrun as a home soon enough."

"I suppose they should have a chance to meet," Leyton ceded. "I'll send a raven to the Hightower tomorrow morning and have my son Garth escort Leyla here with a number of my household knights. After a few days respite, if you agree, we all leave for Riverrun, including my heir, Baelor, and his wife Rhonda Rowan. My heir and good-daughter are dancing over there." He nodded at a tall, relatively handsome man dancing gracefully with a pretty girl in silvery grey. "Baelor was once considered a suitor to Princess Elia of Dorne," he said suddenly. "She – and her brother, the Red Viper – visited Oldtown and I heard rumours that Elia of Dorne liked Baelor the best from her list of suitors." He quietened. "I doubt we would be celebrating King Robert's wedding if Elia Martell married Baelor. She would still be alive and safe in the Hightower."

Hoster nodded uncomfortably. "My uncle, the White Bull, would be alive and well too," Leyton went on, gulping down more Arbor gold.

"I would not say that aloud, my lord," Hoster warned him cautiously. "It was only recently that we fought on opposite sides in a war. Edmure and Lady Leyla's betrothal is only a mere step towards reinstating peace in the Seven Kingdoms, like how Lord Stark wedded Lady Ashara Dayne."

"Yes, yes. I am not a child, Lord Tully!" Lord Leyton had clearly drank too much wine and the feast was not over yet. "Peace! That is what we want!" He waved his hand and a servant hurriedly refilled his cup.

"Have you tried these lemon cakes, Lord Hightower?" Hoster pushed a plate of lemon cakes towards him. Over the years, he had developed a sweet tooth and a fondness for lemon cakes. _It was Minisa's favourite_ , he reminisced. _She craved them when she was pregnant with little Cat…and Lysa. Lemon cakes are Lysa's favourite snack as well_. Earlier that day, he caught sight of Lysa chewing a lemon cake with another two on her plate. Once, he would chide her; he could not bear reprimanding her anymore.

Leyton Hightower chuckled. "You clearly have not tasted the lemon cakes at Highgarden, Lord Tully. The Queen of Thorns herself appreciates them – not as much as her love for cheese of course! She is one cunning woman, that Lady Olenna. With a sharp tongue and wicked wit as quick as lightning…" He chortled, scoffing down his second lemon cake. "Before you can even speak, she will have you knocked down speechless! You should meet the Lady Olenna one day, Lord Tully." He reached for a fruit tart in front of him. "Mmm! Apricot! This must be the Tyrells' gift to the king."

"The Tyrells gifted the king and queen with over a dozen carts of fruit and two white steeds with golden bridles."

"You have a fine memory, my lord!"

 _They received the gifts earlier today, Lord Hightower. It isn't exactly difficult to remember them._ Hoster himself had bequeathed Robert and Catelyn with a set of lacquer brown bows and two quivers filled with a score of goose-feather fletched arrows each. Cat had never hunted, but Robert did. "I will use this bow in the next royal hunt!" Robert had declared exuberantly. "I have never been gifted with a bow with such brilliant colour and grip!" He had said that after the disgraced Darrys presented him with a fine crossbow.

"It seems my lady wife is bored," remarked Leyton, wiping his mouth with a linen cloth and standing up. "I must remedy that with a dance! Lord Tully." He nodded at Hoster. "I am relieved we concluded our alliance so quickly. We will speak again tomorrow, yes? Again, congratulations on your daughter's wedding to the king." He smiled and headed off to find his disinterested wife, the Lady Rhea Florent. Lady Rhea was Leyton's fourth wife.

"Milord, Lord Frey wishes to speak to you."

Hoster snorted. "The _Late_ Lord Frey." It was astonishing the old and repulsive Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing, could manage to travel to King's Landing without dying on the way. _Isn't Lord Walder Frey confined to a chair?_ By the Seven! Old Frey was a man of _thirty_ when he himself was born. Hoster sighed wearily. "Oh very well." _Old Frey probably wants to wed one of his daughters or granddaughters to Edmure…again_. Out of respect for Lord Walder's old age and frailness, Hoster headed to the trestle table occupied by his bannermen and their families. Half of them were weasel-faced Freys.

"Lord Tully!" said Walder Frey, grinning like a weasel when he saw Hoster. He turned to the Frey beside him – his heir? – and barked. "Move! Lord Tully needs a seat!" The Frey knight scrambled to his feet, spilling wine on his grey linen tunic emblazoned with the two blue towers of Frey. "Fool," Lord Frey grumbled. He gave Hoster a toothless smirk. "Please sit, Lord Tully!"

Giving him a suspicious look, Hoster sat down, careful not to touch the spilled wine. "A servant said you wished to speak to me," he said stiffly. "I am here. What do you want to talk to me about?"

"Very blunt are you not? _Heh_." Old Walder glugged down half a cup of wine as red as blood. He licked his lips with his small and pink bud of a tongue. Hoster suppressed a shudder. " _Heh_ ," Walder Frey said again, his thin, wrinkly fingers snatching the biscuit at the top of a mountain of sweet biscuits. Hoster wondered how Walder would eat it with his meagre number of remaining teeth. "My wife gifted me with another red-faced, squalling bundle of _heh_ , joy last week," he said, his other hand grabbing his wine cup. "A girl this time. Named Roslin. Only a few hours later, my wife died. _Heh_. The maester said she died from complications in childbirth. _Heh_. What can you expect from a Rosby?"

"My condolences on your wife's death."

" _Heh_." The old weasel eyed him with distrust for a minute before glancing away, satisfied with Hoster's genuine response. "What am I to do with another daughter?" he continued grumpily. "I already have a good many daughters and granddaughters, good-daughters and good-granddaughters…"

"Edmure is already affianced," Hoster interrupted brusquely.

Walder Frey narrowed his eyes. "Eh?" He scoffed. "A noblewoman of a Great House no doubt, Lord Tully."

"Lady Leyla Hightower."

" _Heh_. Well I have two daughters around his age: Morya and Tyta." Walder nodded at two surprisingly comely girls sitting a few seats away from him. "Why not allow Ser Edmure to decide for himself?" he suggested. "My daughters are fair to look upon and virtuous. _Heh_." Noticing his doubtful expression, old Frey snapped. "Their mother was a Blackwood! _Heh_."

 _You arrived_ after _the Battle of the Trident was won; you ignored_ a dozen _of my summons; and you are downright unpleasant. As long as I live,_ no _Tully will wed one of your offspring._ Hoster pondered if the Late Lord Walder Frey's greatest achievement was wedding his second son Ser Emmon, to Lady Genna Lannister, a shapely woman with a shrewd mind. At one stage Hoster's father had thought to wed Hoster to Lady Genna…but for once, Walder Frey was first to suggest the match of Emmon Frey and Genna Lannister. "Peace with our enemies is most vital at the moment," Hoster said carefully. Despite being infirm and old, Lord Walder was still as prickly as a bush of thorns. "We must have peace with our once-enemies," he said again, "and what better way than through marriage? We fought against the Hightowers; a Tully of Riverrun and a Hightower of Oldtown wed in matrimony will be better for the good of the Riverlands than a Tully and a Frey of the Crossing."

" _Heh_ ," huffed Walder Frey. "I heard the Blackfish will a knight of King Robert's Kingsguard. _Heh_. He will be in need of squires and pages, will he not? My sons Jammos and Whalen are of age to be squires. Perhaps the Blackfish will be good enough to take them on?"

"You will have to ask the Blackfish yourself." He was tempted to finish his sentence with a _heh_. He thought it prudent not to mention the Blackfish had already conceded to squire a Vance. Then again, Blind Norbert Vance was a good friend of the Blackfish's during their youth and he may have agreed to squire one of Blind Norbert's younger sons as a personal favour.

Before old Walder Frey could respond, Robert boomed drunkenly. "TIME FOR THE _BEDDING!_ " A large number of lords roared approvingly in response and moved like a tide towards a giggling Catelyn. Simultaneously, the ladies swarmed Robert like locusts. The lords and ladies lifted the king and queen and headed to their chamber, laughing and mentioning bawdy japes whilst stripping Robert and Cat of their clothes.

"Ooh, the king will enjoy her very much," snickered Lord Walder, forgetting for a moment he was speaking to Hoster. "A pair of fine teats… _heh_."

* * *

 **I would've written quicker, but I had to study for exams :( I thought it would be nice to skip to Robert and Catelyn's wedding feast in Hoster Tully's POV because well, Ned's back in King's Landing, and if I kept focusing on the Targaryen issues, the plot wouldn't be exactly going anywhere. I greatly enjoyed writing the conversation between Hoster and Walder Frey. I hope you enjoy reading it too :) For those who are confused, in this AU version, Ned agreed to only a betrothal with Catelyn as Hoster can arrange a better match for her if Ned dies in war and she is still a maiden.**


	7. Eddard III

Ned stared vaguely at the intricately carved tester as he bathed in the early rays of sunlight. It was too late to try and return to the realm of dreams, but too early to rise and prepare himself for the day.

He felt Ashara shift beside him. "What is it?" she said sleepily. _How does she know I am awake?_

"The Targaryens," said Ned softly. "Did I make the honourable decision?" With a muffled groan, Ashara felt around, grabbed a silky pillow and slammed it in his face. "Go to sleep," she ordered with a yawn. "What is done, is done. You showed Robert the boy's body, the babe is on her way to Winterfell and as far as Robert and the other lords are concerned, the Targaryens are no more. Go to sleep Ned. You need your strength for your first small council meeting." She snuggled closer to him. "Think about _our_ future children," she whispered groggily. "Would that not make a more pleasant dream than the Targaryens?" She drifted back to sleep easily; Ned did not.

The Targaryen infant was named Daenerys (Ashara's idea) and under Lord Howland's care, was on her way to Winterfell under the name 'Sand'. Ashara and he had agreed to pass the child off as her brother Lord Dayne's bastard. With her strands of silver-blonde hair and purple eyes, the people would suspect her less as a Targaryen once she was acknowledged as a Dayne's bastard. After all, stony Dornishmen like the Daynes resembled those of Andal and First Men blood and the Daynes luckily share the traits of violet eyes. What was even more fortuitous was that certain Daynes such as their cadet branch from High Hermitage also happened to have silver hair. Perhaps his marriage to Lady Ashara Dayne carried more advantages than he thought; mayhaps both the old gods and new entwined it in his destiny; he did not care. Daenerys was born a Targaryen and named a Sand, but she will be raised a Stark.

As for Viserys…Ned tried to think of something else. _Think of your future sons and daughters. Think of your future children._ He closed his eyes and pictured a lad around eight run towards him, his purple eyes shining as brightly as the stars as he crowed in triumph after his first victory in shooting a bull's eye; another boy trailing behind him, his grey eyes glazed with wonder as he was presented his first horse; a little girl as pretty as her mother with cascading dark hair and violet eyes singing the songs of summer; perhaps another daughter with more of a Stark look – a long face and grey eyes – with a flickering flame of wildness. Oh, he would love a daughter as wolf-blooded as Brandon and Lyanna. He wondered how Ashara would react to a wild daughter with no desire to be like a southron lady. He chuckled silently. Ashara was not exactly a demure lady herself.

Ned slipped in and out of light dreams as swiftly as one would change tunics on a hot summer's day. _He was back in the Eyrie…no, now he was in Winterfell's godswood, soothing a crying babe…Robert was announcing something…a fair maiden with purple eyes was speaking to him in a foreign tongue…a Northern boy swooped towards him on the back of a dragon…the great creature opened its mouth and he was engulfed in hungry flames…_

* * *

"Ned." Ned grunted as he felt someone shake his shoulders. "Ned." He opened a tired eye. "NED!" He scrambled up, looking around wildly. He paused when he heard Ashara cackle with laughter. "That is not funny, lady wife," Ned said with mock severity. "Do you wish to kill your husband with fright?"

Ashara shrugged, a smirk hovering on her lips. "If I loathe my husband I might. However, the gods have blessed me with a kind husband. You better wake up if you want a spot of breakfast. I had the maid fetch us bowls of porridge, pots of honey, flagons of milk, boiled eggs and a plate of crisp fried fish. She should be arriving at any minute."

Ned nodded and went to open his chest. As it was his first council session, he must look presentable as the new Master of Laws. It would not do to show up in old boiled leather or a comfortable, yet shabby tunic. With a sigh, he reached for his usual set of clothes: dark trousers, a quilted tunic sewn on the breast with the white escutcheon embossed with a running grey direwolf and a pair of dark, high boots. He nodded to himself. _Very comfortable._

After a swift change of clothes, Ned joined Ashara for breakfast. He absently drizzled a spoonful of golden honey onto his porridge and took a sip of cold milk. As he bit into a crisp fried fish, he felt ill. _Every time a Stark goes south, he never returns_ , he thought worriedly. _Here I am, in the centre of a snake pit. Back home, it is much simpler; hard, blunt truth compared to southron charades. Robert will never permit me to return to Winterfell now…I should not have involved myself with those Targaryens…_

"Did you read the letter from your brother?" Ashara broke the silence.

Ned nodded, smiling. "Benjen is well. Our father's maester had died and his replacement arrived safely at Winterfell. Luwin…I think his name is. Maester Luwin. According to Benjen, Maester Luwin had even earnt his Valyrian steel link. Not many acolytes study magic and the occult these days. Benjen cannot praise Maester Luwin enough; he is a patient listener and gives helpful advice, according to this letter. I hope to see him one day when we go to Winterfell." _If we ever leave for Winterfell_. He was hit with a pang of regret. If it wasn't for his blasted honour, he would be on his way home with Ashara.

"Has he chosen a Northern bride yet?"

Ned shook his head. "In his letter, he stated that he was considering joining the Night's Watch. Why would he?" He felt a wave of sorrow rather than anger. "I need my brother. There must always be a Stark at Winterfell. You are yet to be with child and Ben…he is the only other Stark left." Before Lyanna's abduction, there were many Starks; now…only Ned and Benjen.

Ashara patted his hand. "We will have children," she vowed. "Soon, Winterfell will be filled with a litter of children." Ned smiled a little. "Benjen is still thinking of joining," Ashara continued. "He is still young and the thought of marriage and siring children may not have occurred to him. It might soon enough."

"Hmm. What will you do today?" Ned changed the subject. "I will be trapped in a long day of arguing with other lords. What about you?"

"I suppose I will join the queen's entourage of ladies and spend the day with gossiping ladies and hours of sewing."

Ned chuckled as Ashara rolled her eyes. "You are a highborn lady! Surely a few hours of sewing is harmless!"

"It is _boring_. I spent most of my life running my brother's household in Starfall and now I am here…without a household to run. My good-sister had decided to devote most of her time in Sunspear rather than in Starfall. At first, I despised her for burdening me with the task of running a household, but later, I actually enjoyed it. Reviewing figures, arranging feasts for the rare guests, chatting to the cook and the master of horse…I enjoyed every moment of it. What am I to do but sew in the queen's company? I look forward to converse with Queen Catelyn, but there must be something else for me to do apart from sewing!" Her lowly opinion of sewing reminded Ned more and more of Lyanna.

"I must go," said Ned regretfully, swigging down the rest of his cup of milk and standing up. He hesitantly kissed Ashara on the cheek before rushing out, hoping he was not late. He strode into the council chamber, relieved when he saw only Stannis there, gazing at a carved screen from the Summer Isles placed in a corner of the room. "Lord Stannis," said Ned pleasantly. Stannis Baratheon turned stiffly and nodded. "Lord Stark," he returned. "I was beginning to wonder if His Grace made a jape regarding the small council meeting early in the morning."

"Did you just arrive, Lord Stannis?"

"No. I sat here for at least twenty minutes." He grinded his teeth. "At least His Grace chose his Master of Laws wisely," he remarked, his dark blue eyes gazing at Ned expressionlessly. "If you had not agreed, he would have most likely given that position to Tywin Lannister or that…that fat Tyrell." Stannis's lips drastically tightened as he spat his last words as if it was poison.

"Yes, well," said Ned uncomfortably, "I am the Master of Laws now."

"Hmmph. I hope thievery and rape will cease once you implement a number of good, strong laws with His Grace's permission."

"I do too."

"Ahh, I see I am not the first to arrive." The eunuch glided in, rubbing his soft, powdered hands together. Today, he had decided to wear rich damask robes of saffron yellow embroidered with swirls of green. "Lord Stannis, Lord Stark," he said, with an enigmatic smile. "Both of you are well I hope?"

Ned nodded cautiously. "I hope you are well too, Lord Varys."

Varys chuckled softly. "I slept quite well, Lord Stark – particularly with the notion you are our Master of Laws and no lord can break your…friendship with our good King Robert."

"Why should you care about Lord Stark's friendship with His Grace?" Stannis looked at him suspiciously.

"I value nothing but peace, Lord Stannis." Varys spread his hands. "Peace in the realm is all I desire. What of yourself, Lord Stannis? Perhaps…further praise for you valiant efforts in his war? The king's brotherly affection even?" He smiled mysteriously as Stannis scowled viciously. "And you, Lord Stark?" Varys's wily eyes glanced back at Ned. "What do you crave the most?" He studied him for a moment. "Mayhaps…an opportunity to return home to Winterfell?" He grinned as Ned's mouth dropped open with astonishment.

Ned scrambled to his seat and tried to occupy himself by studying the pair of Valyrian sphinxes flanking the door, their eyes of polished garnet smouldering in black marble faces. After what felt like a couple of hours, the other appointed councillors finally appeared. The ancient Grand Maester Pycelle shuffled in, his heavy maester's chains clinking quietly as he sat down on a tall chair at the foot of the table. He stroked his long snowy beard that ran down to his chest with his wiry fingers as he mumbled softly to himself. Following him was the King's Hand, Jon Arryn, who gave Ned a firm nod before seating himself on the chair at the right of the head of the table. Lastly, Robert himself stomped to his chair, Ser Barristan Selmy moving behind him like his silent shadow. Robert silenced the murmurs of "Your Grace," and grunted. "Let's get on with this, now shall we?" before reaching for his wine cup.

"Certainly, Your Grace," said Jon calmly. "All you are missing is a Master of the Coin. Have you selected one of yet, Your Grace?"

"Find a Lannister to fill the post," grumbled Robert. "What do they say? Tywin Lannister shits gold?"

"Lord Tywin may be offended by the position of Master of the Coin," Varys interjected. "He was the King's Hand during the reign of the Mad King, and to be given the seat of the Master of the Coin...he will not be pleased."

"Aye," agreed Stannis. "Lord Tywin is not a man you wish to anger."

"Speaking of Lannisters-" started Ned.

"No!" snapped Robert. "Ser Jaime Lannister will not be beheaded or sent to the fucking Wall!" He drained his cup of wine.

"Perhaps release him from his vows instead?" proposed Varys. "It will punish him for killing the Mad King and placate Lord Tywin – he always desired his son to be released from his Kingsguard vows."

"No!" said Ser Barristan, Ned and surprisingly Stannis, in unison. King Robert raised an eyebrow.

"A knight of the Kingsguard is sworn in for life!" protested Ser Barristan. "Ser Jaime Lannister cannot be released from his vows! He may have slew the Mad King, but he is still part of the Kingsguard!"

"He swore a vow," Ned pointed out. Stannis gave a rigid nod. "Your Grace, if you release him from his Kingsguard duties, you are allowing him to get away with the crime of kingslaying. Besides, would it not be more useful if you keep Ser Jaime close to you in case Tywin Lannister decides to rebel against you? I'd rather Ser Jaime Lannister remain a knight of the Kingsguard than the heir of Casterly Rock – he certainly does not deserve either option."

"What about Ser Kevan Lannister, Lord Tywin's brother?" suggested Jon, who had been silently in thought for the last minute. "He is a man Lord Tywin trusts, and is a Lannister."

"Fine," said Robert carelessly. "Send a letter to Tywin or tell him in person. I hope to hear nothing but good news from the Master of the Coin soon! Now that the matter is sorted, what next?"

"The Kingsguard," Barristan the Bold said at once. "Currently there are only two members – Ser Jaime and myself. For your protection, Your Grace, the other five spots must be filled."

Robert looked around at Ned and the other councillors. "Any suggestions? Any good recommendations at all?"

"Ser Balon Swann," grunted Stannis. "He is good with a lance, but better with a morningstar and an exceptional fighter with a bow. Ser Barristan, have you met or heard of him before? Both of you are from the Stormlands."

Barristan the Bold nodded approvingly. "Aye, Lord Stannis. I squired for his cousin Ser Manfred Swann in my youth. I…I also happened to rescue Lady Jeyne Swann and her septa from the Kingswood Brotherhood two years ago. Ser Balon will make a fine addition to the Kingsguard."

"What about Arys Oakheart?" Jon Arryn put forward. "He is courteous and a fair swordsman. He is a Reachman too – it will certainly appease the Reachmen for one of their own to be chosen as a knight of the Kingsguard. One of my men, Ser Mandon Moore, he is an extremely skilled warrior and will be a fine asset to the Kingsguard, I can assure you of that."

"Why not Ser Lyle Crakehall?" Varys suggested, rubbing his hands again. "I heard he is a good fighter, but his greatest quality is his strength. He is not called the Strongboar for naught." He chuckled quietly. "Ser Barristan, has the Blackfish responded to your offer yet? If I may be bold" – he tittered –"he is as famous as you and the Kingsguard needs another prominent war hero. The White Bull…the Sword in the Morning…Ser Barristan the Bold…the Kingslayer" – he giggle again –"well, now only Ser Barristan the Bold and the Kingslayer are alive and part of His Grace's Kingsguard. Why not the Blackfish? Ladies will swoon over songs of his valour as a Kingsguard knight." _The Blackfish in white? An amusing sight no doubt about that._

"That will do for now," decided Robert, clearly bored of the discussion. "Ser Barristan, you will meet the knights mentioned and decide for yourself if they deserve the honour of being part of my Kingsguard. Ned! How do you find your married life? Do you find your wife pleasing?" _Robert!_

Another four pairs of eyes swivelled to Ned. "I…" said Ned, taken back. "I…I don't think that is a fitting topic of discussion, Your Grace."

"Nonsense!" Robert snickered. "Will there be a brood of little Starks trailing behind you in the future? I hear Dornish women are like bitches on heat when it comes to fucking." All the other councillors flushed red.

"She…" Ned swallowed. "She…I…"

Robert roared with laughter. "Lord Ned Stark lost for words! Ha!" He drank more wine and chortled.

"What of the Tyrells?" asked Stannis, unamused. "The Redwynes are sworn to them; the Redwyne fleet is powerful enough to challenge the royal fleet."

"Appease them with a royal marriage," advised Jon wisely. "Your Grace, even thought the Tyrells have bent the knee, they are still an influential House; too powerful to ignore. Your Grace, you have a younger brother, Lord Renly. Lord Tyrell has an infant daughter, as does Lord Redwyne. Offer a betrothal between Lord Renly and either the Tyrell girl or Redwyne babe. It will tell them Your Grace is keen on peace between the Iron Throne and the Reach, yet they were your former foes hence no royal marriage between a highborn lady of the Reach and any of your future sons."

Ned nodded in agreement. "Lord Tyrell should be grateful at the prospect of being good-father to His Grace's brother." _Not that he deserves it._

"Very well," said Robert, who looked as if he was itching to move. "Jon, write a letter to Lord Tyrell with terms. I know I can trust you with the details of Renly's betrothal with Tyrell's infant daughter. Now that smoothes relations with the goddamn Reach, what of the Greyjoys and Lannisters? Those fucking Greyjoys will never agree to peace through marriage."

"Maybe accept one as part of the Kingsguard?" suggested Ser Barristan.

Robert snorted. "He will axe me in the back and be the new kingslayer. Those Ironborn cannot be trusted."

"Offer marriage anyway?" Jon pressed quizzically. "Lord Varys, Balon Greyjoy has a daughter, does he not? Why not wed her to Lord Stannis? Balon Greyjoy's good-brother, Lord Rodrik Harlaw, is an ardent reader; he will advocate the idea of peace to Lord Greyjoy."

The king barked with laughter as Stannis's already tightened lips stiffened. "A stag and a kraken in bed together," he sniggered. "Well! Brother, do you have it in you to fuck a kraken?"

"Leave them be," Ned said swiftly, before Stannis could respond. "There have been no word of discontentment from the Iron Islands; best we do nothing. Lord Balon Greyjoy is – from what I heard – a stubborn and quarrelsome man. He may think a match between his only daughter and Lord Stannis as a way of His Grace exerting more power over the Ironborn; something Balon will not take well at all. I suggest we leave the Ironborn alone…for now."

Robert nodded. "Very well." He rose and cracked his knuckles. "There is still time for a hunt," he declared. "Stannis! Will you join me this time? Perhaps you will find another injured goshawk to nurse." He guffawed, sauntering out of the council chamber with Ser Barristan striding behind him. Jon Arryn stood up and said to Ned, "I am pleased you agreed to be Robert's Master of Laws. There is no other man suited to that position than you. I hope to speak to you again before I leave for Dorne. Perhaps Lord Tully will invite you to my wedding with Lady Lysa Tully." He smiled and exited, no doubt to write the many letters Robert had instructed him to inscribe.

Stannis nodded at Ned and wordlessly left, followed shortly by Pycelle who muttered good day to Ned and shuffled out, leaving Ned alone with Varys. "I still have not thanked you yet, Lord Varys," said Ned hesitantly. "If it was-"

"No need, my lord Stark," the eunuch cut through smoothly. "As I said before, I value nothing more than peace in the Seven Kingdoms. How can the slightest bit of peace be achieved if you and the king are enemies? The North and the South must be unified, and what better than your friendship with His Grace? I did what had to be done for the good of the realm." He smiled at Ned. "Your honour had prevented you from committing a heinous atrocity and I found the means to cure that predicament. No thanks is needed, Lord Stark."

"Where did you find-"

"Do not worry about it, Lord Stark. What is done is done. Your honour is still unsullied and no one will ever find out. It will be…" He paused. "Our little secret, eh, Lord Stark?"

"Where did you-"

"Take him?" Varys smiled apologetically. "I'm afraid I cannot tell you that Lord Stark. It will be in your best interests to forget all about it. The more you think of it, the more it will eat you alive." He placed his powdered hand on Ned's arm. "Go and dream of your future with Lady Stark," the eunuch advised. "The longer you dwell in the past…the easier picking you will be."

* * *

 **Out of interest for future chapters, should Sansa still be Ned's daughter but with the features of Ashara, or be either a daughter of Catelyn or Lysa to inherit the Tully features (or maybe even be Edmure's daughter)? As Ned is Master of Laws instead of the King's Hand and currently near the beginning of Robert's reign, I thought it would be interesting to write what a council session would be at that time. I hope you enjoyed reading the chapter! :)**


	8. Catelyn II

Ever since she was a child in Riverrun, Catelyn had never deluded herself with the thought of a perfect married life…particularly as the lady wife of a notorious drinker and philanderer.

A few months since her wedding had flew past and Catelyn was relieved she never held any illusions of being Robert's queen. He was still courteous to her; he dined with her every day and asked politely about her health (no doubt hoping she would announce the news of pregnancy one day) at every supper. As the end of the year neared, Catelyn fervently hoped she could gift Robert with the news of pregnancy soon. _Could I possibly be carrying his child now? My moon blood has not come yet; it's been two months ._ She frowned as she recalled Cersei Lannister hint loudly to the other ladies about the late Lady Tully's troubles in childbirth. If her father was not Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport and Warden of the West, Catelyn would have banished her from court already.

Apart from breakfast and supper, the only other time Robert Baratheon would consistently spend time with her was at night when he would pump his seed into her before rolling over and snoring like a pig. Catelyn never complained. _Family, Duty, Honour._ The Tully words echoed in Catelyn's mind even now she was a Baratheon. For the rest of her days, she spent it either in her chambers or in the library or the gardens with her gaggle of ladies. As queen, she was entitled to a large number of them from noble families.

Catelyn was not blind to all the gossiping and whispering that cropped up around her and she chose only her sister Lysa – now Lady Arryn – and Lady Ashara Stark as her closest confidantes. She had yet to meet Edmure's betrothed, Lady Leyla Hightower, but she did have Lady Alerie in her company. Despite being a Tyrell by marriage, Lady Alerie was more than happy to entertain Lysa and Catelyn with stories about her sister Leyla during their childhood.

"Leyla is such a sweet girl, Your Grace," Alerie had once said, "always kind to everyone and quite talented at singing and playing the high harp. Is Ser Edmure fond of music, Your Grace?"

 _Edmure dislikes music_. "Lady Leyla will bring beautiful music to Riverrun," said Catelyn graciously. "Ser Edmure will greatly appreciate it as will our father. Our father loves music. He oft said it reminded him of my late mother." She liked Alerie Hightower and enjoyed hearing her stories about her childhood, some of which reminded Catelyn of her own girlhood in Riverrun.

Other than Lady Alerie, Lysa and Ashara, Catelyn's ladies ranged from nobles from the Riverlands to highborn girls of the Reach. She learnt that Northerners tended to stay home in the cold North whilst the Dornish – still holding a grudge – apart from Lady Ashara Stark, preferred to stay away from King's Landing. As a daughter of the Riverlands, Catelyn felt more comfortable with the daughters, sisters and wives of her father's bannermen such as Lord Jonos Bracken's wife, Lady Bracken, as opposed to the Stokeworths and Cersei Lannister. However, as queen, Catelyn knew it was her duty to converse with all her ladies rather than show obvious favouritism.

"Your Grace," her uncle Brynden the Blackfish, appeared at her side. "The king has requested to dine with you at supper tonight."

Catelyn nodded. "I sup with him every night."

"Your good-brother Lord Stannis, will join you tonight."

Flabbergasted, Catelyn accidently pricked her finger with her needle. "Lord Stannis Baratheon wishes to dine with us?" she repeated. Uncle Brynden nodded, shifting uncomfortably in his intricate Kingsguard suit of white enamelled scales. His snow white cloak – clasped at his throat with a black fish brooch – billowed around him as he stood beside her. "The king wishes for a family gathering," he added helpfully. "As Lord Stannis has no wife and Lord Renly is still in Storm's End, it will only be the three of you dining tonight."

She looked at him strangely. "Very well," she said, slightly curious now. "I will go as usual. Thank you, Uncle." The Blackfish opened his mouth as if to say more, but he closed it and stepped back in the shadows. For her protection, Robert had assigned Uncle Brynden to guard her and be her sworn shield.

Catelyn turned to Lysa. "How do you find your marriage, Sister?"

Lysa pouted, ignoring the stares and whispers from the other ladies. "I hoped Jon would stay in Dorne," she said flatly and childishly, her once sparkling blue eyes now dull. "He is not a good husband to me. All he cares about is the king, running the kingdom and if I am with child. I am nothing but a brood mare!" She scowled. "Does your husband caress you with kisses?" she said longingly. "Does he love you like the princes do to maidens in the songs?" _I wish I can say yes, Lysa..._ "Another time," she said gently, noticing Cersei stare at her from across the room. "When we visit Riverrun again, I will tell you all," she promised. "I will tell you how Robert loves me-" _a lie_. "-and cares for me. If Lord Arryn frightens you, I will protect you. Uncle Brynden can protect you too. You are safe Lysa, and Lord Arryn does _not_ think of you as a brood mare."

"Your Grace," ventured Ashara. Lysa shot her a murderous glare. "May I have a word with you, Your Grace?"

Catelyn nodded and stood up. "Lady Stark and I will be going for a walk," she announced. "I will call you again if I request company." She smiled and left with Ashara, Uncle Brynden following them silently. "It seemed like you wanted a word with me in private," Catelyn told Ashara as they headed to the Red Keep's godswood. A large acre of elm, alder and black cottonwood trees, the godswood overlooked the Blackwater Rush, one of the major rivers in Westeros. As there were no weirwood, the heart tree in the Red Keep's godswood was a great oak, its limbs overgrown and tangled with smokeberry vines.

"I am grateful, Your Grace," answered Ashara.

"Please, no more 'Your Grace'. Call me Catelyn."

"As you wish, _Catelyn_."

Catelyn smiled. "What is it you wish to speak to me about?"

"Ned," said Ashara promptly. "He is unhappy here. The king is pleased his good friend is here as his Master of Laws, but Ned does not find the Red Keep his home. His Grace will never permit him to leave; I am here as a wife to plead for you to convince your husband to allow him to leave for Winterfell."

"Lady Stark…I have no power over my husband. He does as he pleases and I never speak to him of politics."

"This is not about politics, my queen. This is about a wife pleading for her lord husband to be released from his duties here in King's Landing."

Catelyn sighed. "Lady Stark, your husband is one of the few men capable to be the Master of Laws. With him enforcing the laws, rape and thievery had already ceased significantly. Can you think of another competent enough to be Master of Laws if Lord Stark leaves for Winterfell?"

"Your lord father-"

"No. If I suggest that to Robert, the other courtiers will think I try to influence

him to increase my family's power and position. I cannot propose the Master of Laws to be any lord from the Riverlands." She looked intently at Ashara. "Do you have any names I can pass along to the king?"

"Perhaps a lord from the Crownlands? Mayhaps my husband will be happy to provide a name or two for his successor."

"Is there another reason for your plea? I doubt Robert will allow you and Lord Stark to return to Winterfell on the grounds of unhappiness here."

Ashara quietened and said softly. "I am with child."

* * *

Catelyn poked her portion of trout cooked in a crust of crushed almonds with a knife as her good-brother Stannis droned on about the growth of the royal fleet and the need for experienced sailors. Sensing her boredom – or perhaps his own – Robert interrupted him. "Enough, Stannis. Talk to Jon about it. My lady wife is tired of hearing your complaints."

Stannis grunted and speared a slice of smoked duck breast with his dagger. He mercilessly drowned it in a bowl of creamy chestnut soup and gnawed at it as a servant refilled his lemon water. Robert had told Catelyn one time that Stannis was the only man he knew who disdained good wine.

"When will Renly join the court?" said Catelyn, hoping to lighten the brooding mood. She had not met her youngest good-brother (more of a nephew or son by the sounds of it) yet and was keen to. Rumour was Renly looked like a younger Robert in his childhood.

"When he reaches manhood," answered Stannis flatly. "He is still a child thus he will remain in Storm's End under the care of Ser Cortnay Penrose, whom I've appointed as castellan. However, Renly may visit court a few days a year when we celebrate Robert's name days."

"Stannis japes!" declared Robert, with a chortle. "Only a fool stays away from court! Renly will arrive here when it is safe for him to travel, most likely at the beginning of next year."

Stannis stared at him. "Court will be a distraction to him."

"Bah! If I leave Renly at Storm's End, he'll turn out like you, and that is the last thing we need, eh? Cat, can you imagine another little Stannis? Father will not thank me if I allow my little brother to be the same as you; a solemn, grim man who does not know how to smile."

" _Our_ brother. Renly is mine brother as much as he is yours."

Robert snorted, wine spraying from his mouth. Stannis shook his head with disgust and edged away from the droplet of wine that landed beside his lemon water. " _Renly_ will _come to court_ ," Robert repeated. "He is the brother of the king, not the brother of a lord. Renly will be raised a courtier _here_. Would you rather he die of boredom at Storm's End? Besides, are you not the Lord of Storm's End, Stannis? It should be you dwelling in Storm's End, not Renly. Would you prefer if I give the lordship to Renly instead?"

Stannis grinded his teeth so loudly Catelyn was certain Ser Barristan Selmy and Uncle Brynden could hear it…from outside.

"Lord husband," said Catelyn quickly. "How was your day?"

"Eh?" Robert glanced at her and grinned eagerly. "Ah, it was a fine day! I left Jon to rule the Seven Kingdoms – he is good at that, clever Jon – and went on a hunt in the kingswood from dawn! You should see the pelts and stuffed animal heads Cat!" He paused thoughtfully. "I will gift you with wolf pelts and fox fur in the coming winter," he said generously. "Do you hunt, my lady?"

Catelyn shook her head. "My father feared bandits would abduct me or Lysa in the woods. At times, some of my father's bannermen would go hunting and gift me and Lysa with pelts to garner favour with our father."

"Have you held a crossbow before, Cat?"

"No, lord husband. The only weapon I was allowed to hold was a dagger."

Robert roared with laughter. "Now wasn't he protective, old Hoster? Mm, you should come with me on my next hunt! I insist!"

"Very well." _Family, Duty, Honour. Think the Tully words. How can I tell him I loathe the idea of killing animals for sport? I hope Robert does not expect me to accompany him in every hunt…_

Stannis looked at her. "Will you not feel ill, my lady?" he said bluntly. "Will the sight of blood and dead deer make you feel ill?"

"Ignore him," Robert advised Catelyn. "He does not believe women should hold crossbows and hunt." He snorted. "Cat, do you remember that short, stout Northern woman from our wedding? The one who was rumoured to have fucked a bear? Ned told me she hunts as well as any man! If she ever comes back here, I look forward to hunt with her! It will surely be a challenge! No man here is brave or bold enough to put up a challenge." He shook his head forlornly. "A bunch of fools, Cat. A bunch of fools."

"They are afraid of accidently injuring you, my lord."

Her husband chuckled. "More like afraid of my wrath, Cat." He shook his head again. "Utter fools."

Catelyn smiled weakly and sipped her goblet of Arbor gold. It was only her second glass today; she felt slightly woozy already. How can Robert consume so much wine? It is…odd.

"There is peace throughout the Seven Kingdoms now?" she said hopefully. "I heard Lord Arryn was successful in Dorne."

"Barely," muttered Stannis. Robert ignored him. "All is well," he said to her with the utmost confidence. "Ned Stark holds the North and he is a brother to me. He will never betray me. Your father precedes over the Riverlands and he is my good-father. He will never turn from his family, eh? Jon Arryn is my foster father and my Hand (as well as your good-brother); the Vale harbours nothing but peace. The Fat Flower of Highgarden bent the knee at the end of the war and his daughter will be betrothed to Renly. There will be no trouble from him. Then there is Tywin Lannister…his brother is the Master of the Coin and his son is still part of the Kingsguard. Will that not be enough for him? Dorne may despise me, but they do not have enough power to rebel against me, or so Jon assures me. As for the Iron Islands, if they dare lift a single finger as a sign of war, Stannis here, as the Master of Ships, will force them to their knees!"

"That is…good to hear." She delicately picked up a small slice of blackberry cake with her long fingers and nibbled it. The meals at King's Landing were oft quite filling, but she always left room for either a sweet biscuit, a lemon cake or any other type of cake or sweets.

"Lord Paxter Redwyne has arrived this morning with his twin sons as you have ordered," Stannis informed Robert. "Both boys seem to be no older than three; too young to be pages. However, you must keep one or both of them here in case Lord Redwyne decides to rebel against you. Even with the Fat Flower's infant daughter affianced to Renly, betrothals can be broken and both Redwyne and Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill are his sworn bannermen. Redwyne controls the most powerful fleet in Westeros and Tarly is a formidable commander; certainly more competent than the Fat Flower himself-"

"Do you ever stop?" said Robert wearily. "Every day, it's politics, politics, more politics with you. If you are not rambling about politics, you are complaining! Go to a brothel and fuck a wench."

Stannis reddened. "I rather not," he said stiffly.

"Of course." Robert leaned towards him."Do you even know how to fuck a woman, Stannis?"

"My lord!" said Catelyn, blushing. "That is an inappropriate topic of discussion when we sup, lord husband."

Robert smirked and drank even more wine. "Very well Cat. How did you find your day? Full of gossip and sewing I presume?"

"Most of it, yes," affirmed Catelyn. "However, I did speak to Lady Stark."

"Oh? How is she finding King's Landing?"

"Different from her life in Starfall. She wishes for me to plea on her behalf."

"Really?" He looked at her with interest. "What may she possibly wish you to plea about? If she wants to return to Dorne, very well. She can leave court when she pleases. Will that be all?"

"It is to do with…Ned."

"Oh?"

"Ned Stark is unhappy here. Lady Stark tells me he yearns to return home. He already served you for months; let him leave for Winterfell."

"Cat…once Ned leaves for Winterfell, he will never come back. As the Master of Laws, rape and thievery has lessened more in these months than in…I don't know, the entire reign of the Mad King? What am I to do without Ned? He is like a brother to me!"

"He thinks you a brother to him too, lord husband, and brothers will never abandon each other in times of need. Ned Stark fought for you and serves you – he serves you still. Allow him to go home and he will be grateful to you. As you said a countless number of times, lord husband, you view Ned Stark as one of your brothers. Will you force a brother to stay someplace he despises and keep him from home?" _Please say nothing, Stannis. Please say nothing_. "What will the Northern lords say?" Catelyn continued softly. "They will grumble about the king who kept their liege lord away from them. Ned Stark is not only your Master of Laws, but also your Warden of the North. The Northerners have not seen their liege lord in months; give them the satisfactory of allowing Ned Stark to return to Winterfell for a year or two. You can always summon him back."

Robert frowned slightly. "He is more useful here…what can he possibly do in the North? Sort out land disputes?"

"There is one other matter," Catelyn went on. "Would you deny the pleas of a pregnant woman? Or should I say…pregnant _women?_ "

* * *

Swaying beneath the heart tree, Catelyn waited for Lord Stark to appear. She smiled to herself as she touched her growing belly. After her talk with Ashara, she had consulted Grand Maester Pycelle and discovered she too was in the early months of pregnancy. Robert was thrilled at the news of her pregnancy of course, but she suspected he was even more pleased that she and Ashara were _both_ with child at the same time. _Once both of us give birth, Robert will propose to unite our Houses._ He still reminisced about Lyanna Stark and desired more than anything – with the exception of wine and wenching – to join Houses Baratheon and Stark together in marriage.

"Your Grace. You summoned me?"

Catelyn smiled and nodded. "Lord Stark."

Slightly less solemn than Stannis, Lord Stark emerged in the godswood. He looked around and asked, "Where is the Blackfish, Your Grace? You should not be out here alone at such a time."

"He is over there." She nodded at a figure standing near an elm cottonwood tree. "I wanted a moment of privacy."

"I see." Lord Stark's grey eyes darted here and there like the flickering flames of a candle. "What is it you wish to tell me, Your Grace?"

"I am with child, Lord Stark."

Ned Stark's eyes shone with surprise. "Um…congratulations, Your Grace! Does the king know?"

Catelyn nodded. "I told him and Lord Stannis over supper last night. That isn't

the point, Lord Stark. I am with child…and so is your lady wife." His expression radiated astonishment and delight.

"Are you hoping for a son or daughter?" she asked, smiling.

"I…I don't know," he said in wonder. "I am to be a father...Your Grace, when did my lady wife tell you?"

"Yesterday, Lord Stark, when she requested for me to plea on her behalf for you." She watched his expression morph into one of confusion. "She did not tell you about it, did she? I thought as much. Lady Ashara Stark informed me that you desire to return home to Winterfell."

"That is common knowledge Your Grace-"

"Common knowledge or no, I spoke to Robert." She paused and beamed as she noticed him staring at her, alert as a hawk – more a direwolf – to its prey. "He gallantly decided to agree to the wishes of two pregnant women," she continued, her beam widening. "Lord Stark, you may finally return to Winterfell."

* * *

 **I wrote this chapter during my last week of exam season, so it may not be as great as previous chapters...I love Catelyn Tully as a character, but I find her POVs slightly difficult to write so do not expect many of them in this story :) As for Sansa, many of you said that she's better as Cat's daughter, but there's a slight problem in this story...all Baratheons are black haired and blue eyed. Either Sansa will be a Tully or a Stark who looks like a miniature version of Ashara Dayne. As she won't appear for at least five chapters, feel free to say whether you want Sansa to be Edmure's daughter of Ned's. I'll most likely write her either as a Tully or Stark based on the most says.**


	9. Ashara II

Exhausted from a month of riding, Ashara wanted nothing more than to sleep on a warm bed. Ned had warned her not to fall asleep while riding. "If you sleep now in the cold, you will die," he cautioned. Following her faithfully from Dorne, Wylla cheerfully chirped to Ashara from dawn to dusk; Ashara was more than grateful for her company.

"We're almost there," Ned encouraged, spurring his horse closer to hers. "Can you see the walls? Come, Ashara! We are almost there!" Ashara had never seen him more happier.

As they approached Winterfell, Ashara felt the shadow of the looming granite wall of about eight feet high. Like spiked heads on the Red Keep's battlements, at least four guard turrets rose from the massive walls of Winterfell. The great main gates slowly swung open and a drawbridge crashed down over a wide moat of still water. Ashara reined her horse into a trot and followed Ned, swallowing a gasp as over thirty watch turrets ascended from the overshadowing inner walls no shorter than a hundred feet. As they rode through more castle gates, the view of the Great Keep appeared, all the members of Winterfell's household standing in front of the wide doors, dipping their heads with respect.

Craning her head, Ashara caught a glimpse of a small grey man in woolly grey robes – he must be Maester Luwin. Standing beside him was a stouter man with large white whiskers, a sword peeking from his brown furred cloak. Apart from the maester and the solid man, Ashara could not recognise or differentiate any of the other northmen there…until she saw a thin man in black furs stride towards them, a broad grin on his face. He had dark hair like Ned's and sharp features, his blue eyes dancing with pleasure. "Ned!" he called. "It has been too long!"

A wide smile broke on Ned's face. "Ben!" he greeted back. "You look well, little brother! Very well indeed!" He dismounted his horse and gave him a tight hug. As they broke apart, Ned led him to Ashara before helping her descend from her own horse. Ashara nodded thanks and smiled politely at the other man as Wylla climbed down from her horse and dutifully cloak another layer of fox fur over Ashara's shoulders.

"Ben," said Ned warmly. "This is my lady wife, Lady Ashara Stark. Ashara, this is my brother Benjen." Before Ashara could speak to Benjen Stark, Ned whisked her in front of the waiting household. "You must be Maester Luwin," he said to the small grey man. "I heard nothing but good words about you."

"Lord Stark," spoke the maester, his thin hands clasped together as he dipped his head again. "Lady Stark. I hope you will have time to heed my advice during your tenure as Lord and Lady of Winterfell."

"I certainly will," promised Ned. He looked at the man with the large white whiskers beside him. "Ashara, this is Ser Rodrik Cassel, the master-at-arms. The man next to him is his nephew, Jory. He is the captain of Winterfell's household guard. Vayon! I hope to hear an excellent report of the stores later. Ashara, Vayon Poole is my steward. Over there is the master of horse Hullen, the kennelmaster Farlen, the blacksmith Mikken, the cook Gage, the brewer Barth, the woman over there is Old Nan and her great-grandson Hodor, the stable boy. We of the North follow the old gods, but as you are of the Faith of the Seven, I have asked for a septon to join the household. He should be here in a few days." Ashara nodded and smiled at the servants and retainers warmly.

"I will take your horses milord, milady," the master of horse offered, stepping forward. "They must be exhausted." Ned nodded. "Please resume your duties," he told his household. "Lady Stark, Benjen and I will sup privately tonight. If any petitioner arrives, tell them to return tomorrow. Vayon, escort Lady Stark's maid Wylla to her quarters – the warmest one if you please. Wylla is Dornish and may find our Northern spring a little cold." He took Ashara's hand; it was surprisingly warm. "Come," he said softly. "I will show you your chambers." Leaving Benjen to chat with Maester Luwin, Ned ushered her into the Great Keep.

Upon entering, the coldness in Ashara's bones melted. Like Ned's hand, the Great Keep was warm. The walls were granite, like those of the inner and outer walls. "It was built over natural hot springs," Ned informed her. "Before we left King's Landing, I wrote to Ben, telling him to prepare the warmest chambers for you." He opened the doors. Ashara looked around and smiled. As Ned said, it was warm. A large bed covered with plump pillows and furs faced an empty hearth surrounded by a mantelpiece carved with twirls, direwolves and stars. Near the corner of the room was her vanity table; fashioned from oak with a matching oaken chair adorned with a grey wolf pelt made into a sort of cushion. Opposite it was a great wardrobe (oak again) and beside the bed was a small oaken table, home to a single stick of candle. "Vayon Poole will replace it when needed," Ned said to her. Ashara crossed the room and curiously pulled back the four heavy tapestries, opening the four high narrow windows. Instantly, a cold gust of wind soared in and sliced her cheek like a Valyrian blade. Ned gently closed the four windows. "Are you satisfied with your bedchamber?" he asked. "If you are not, I can always find your more-"

"It is perfect." Ashara kissed him on the cheek, "but what did you mean by 'my bedchamber'? I thought it is _our_ bedchamber now."

Ned mumbled something inaudibly. Ashara pulled away. "What?"

"It is too warm," he said simply.

Ashara stared at him, amazed. _Too warm?_ "Would you rather sleep outside on the beds of snow?" she teased.

"There is a letter for you." Ned changed the topic. He reached into his cloak pocket and pulled out a sealed letter. "It is from Starfall. I will be waiting outside if you need me." He kissed her and left. Ashara sat on her new bed and opened the letter, tears threatening to flood her eyes. She had not received a letter from Starfall in months, the last from her castellan informing her of Allyria's blooming health and their brother Lord Dayne's brief return. Her hands shaking, Ashara unfolded the letter and read.

 _Ashara,_

 _I have returned to Starfall a few days ago to find you gone. If the castellan had not informed me of your marriage to Eddard Stark of Winterfell, I would have thought you were abducted or murdered. In Sunspear, the people are discontent. All they speak about is the injustice Robert Baratheon had shown, hence I have not heard of your marriage or departure to King's Landing._

 _I hope Lord Stark treats you well; he is said to be an honourable man. If Lord Stark had not wedded you, I would have married you to a Blackmont. Allyria is bonny and sweet, but she misses you greatly. I fear she will grow ill if she discovers you will someday live far away in the North. When will you return to Starfall, even for a short visit? It will not be long before Prince Doran or his castellan of Sunspear recalls me back; the prince probably worries I will impulsively march to King's Landing demanding justice for our brother Arthur's death. He has nothing to worry. Arthur died valiantly in battle as a true knight of the Kingsguard, following his king's – or Rhaegar Targaryen's – orders till the last. I have already commissioned a portrait of him to be hung with the other Swords of the Morning in Starfall and I am taking good care of Dawn. Only the best of my squires are permitted to wipe the blade or even hold it._

 _Once you receive this, please write back, Ashara. I am eager to hear how life as the Lady of Winterfell fares for you._

 _Your brother,_

 _The Lord of Starfall._

Ashara shook her head and smiled. It was so typical of her brother to have signed with his title rather than his name. Ever since Dawn was bestowed upon Arthur and he was titled the new Sword of the Morning, their elder brother had began calling himself Lord Dayne more than his own name.

Before she married Ned, Ashara had considered fostering a few children once Allyria was a little older. Starfall was often more empty of people than full; not a suitable home for a child. She placed the letter beside the candle, making a note to find a box to put the letter – and future letters – in. She knew Ned would never pry, but at court, Catelyn had a habit of placing letters in a mahogany box carved with fish and stags; it sounded petty and slightly childish, but Ashara too longed for a special box to accommodate her letters. She had one – her mother's – in Starfall, but in the rushed preparations to King's Landing, she had forgotten to bring it with her.

Opening the door, Ashara found Ned speaking to a man, his tunic crested with the Stark sigil. Ned stopped and smiled as he saw her. "Ashara, this is Desmond, one of the household guards. I am also assigning him to be your sworn shield for the time being. Desmond will help you find your way around Winterfell when I am occupied with my duties. He will also stay outside your chambers during the night to protect you if I am away."

Ashara nodded. "That is kind of you Ned." Not many lords will assign sworn shields to their wives. "I've been thinking," she began, as they leisurely walked away, Desmond heading the other direction. "Perhaps when Allyria reaches her sixth name day, I will ask for her to be sent here…as a ward. For a year or two of course, before our brother decides to send her off to be fostered by another lord in Dorne. Please, hear me out. When we were in King's Landing, many ladies told me how fortunate I am to have wedded an honourable lord like you. Despite Allyria being a girl, I still want her to learn a thing or two from you before she is married off. I also want to spend more time with her." She waited patiently as Ned bit his lip in contemplation.

"Will Lord Dayne agree?" he said hesitantly.

 _Of course he will not._ "I will convince him," said Ashara confidently. "There is plenty of time to convince him."

"Very well. As long as your brother consents, I am more than happy to foster your sister for a year or two. Before you write to him, I need to um, show you something." He led her through a labyrinth of corridors before opening a door surrounded by two stern men bearing the direwolf sigil. More household guards of Winterfell. Ned murmured to them softly and Ashara followed him in, her eyes immediately drawn to two oak cradles. "Is it not too early?" she questioned. "The babe is not due for another six months." She peered at the one closest to her and smiled. Baby Daenerys was sound asleep, her mouth ajar for a second. _She will be beautiful when she grows up. It is a shame she will be known as a Dornish bastard rather than a Targaryen princess_. When King Robert had left the fates of little Daenerys and her brother in Ned's care, it was Ashara who suggested naming the girl Daenerys, in honour of King Daeron II's sister whose marriage to the Prince of Dorne brought peace and Dorne into the fold.

Expecting it empty, Ashara peeped at the second, more ancient cradle, most likely the future bed for her own babe. To her utter astonishment, it was already usurped by another infant, a boy. Wisps of dark brown hair sprouted from his head and as he opened his eyes, Ashara saw they were dark grey; so dark that they already bordered upon black. There was no doubt the babe was a Stark. She turned and looked at Ned almost accusingly and fearful. "Whose son is that?" she said, her finger shaking violently as she pointed at the babe. Her heart throbbed as her honourable husband looked away, unable to meet her eye.

"Whose child is that?" Ashara repeated, crossing her arms.

"Mine." Ned finally met her gaze, his dark grey eyes reflecting sorrow. "His name is Jon. Jon Snow. He is my…my son." Ashara pursed her lips. _Your son?_ She looked at the babe again. _He looked almost a year old…_

"Tell me." Ashara ordered. "Who is the bastard's mother? Which fair maiden caught the eye of the honourable Ned Stark? Is she highborn?"

His eyes grew hard. "Never ask me about Jon," he said, cold as ice. "He is my blood and that is all you need to know, my lady." He paused and said frostily, "Do not _ever_ call him a bastard. A Snow he may be, he will be raised a Stark. You will treat him as you will your own son."

"No," said Ashara, staring back at him defiantly. "He is no son of mine. Have you not caused my family suffering enough? You killed my brother, forced me to go with you to King's Landing, foisted a _Targaryen_ as a _Dayne_ bastard and now you _order_ me to love your BASTARD!" She laughed hysterically. "No. As long as I live, I will never accept Jon Snow in my family." She placed her hand protectively over her stomach. "I'm going home to Starfall," she said steadily. "I will raise our child to be an honourable man – one more honourable than his father. Even if you legitimise your bastard and make him your heir, so be it. At least my son will be happy and safe in Dorne."

"Safe? Our child will be safer here in Winterfell!"

"Not with the threat of a bastard half-brother lingering around. Besides, he is your firstborn son." She pointed accusingly at the bastard babe. "I heard people oft say that you will always love your firstborn the most. What will I tell our son if he asks why you always love your bastard more?"

Ned gave her a chilling look and turned, walking away wordlessly and leaving Ashara alone with the two babes. With a sigh, she smiled again at the sleeping Daenerys before frowning at Jon Snow, who stared back at her inquisitively with his wide, dark grey eyes.

"He will choose you, wouldn't he?" Ashara said bitterly, watching Jon squirm in his blankets. "No matter how many children I give him, Ned will always choose you as his favourite child. Why can you not look more like your mother? If you did, it would be easier for me to ignore you as Ned's bastard. The gods are cruel to us both, are they not? You will forever be the bane of my life even though you did nothing to hurt me but your mere existence. You could've been my son, but the gods decided to make you a bastard. Ned's bastard."

Feeling more exhausted than angry, Ashara left for her new bedchamber. She had lost her appetite and was in no mood to eat a warm meal. Changing swiftly into a nightgown, Ashara snuggled under the furred blankets, wishing Jon Snow would be dead by morning. _Everyone said I was fortunate_ , she thought, closing her eyes. _Everyone said Lord Eddard Stark is honourable and kind; how is he a kind husband settling his bastard in his home and presenting him to me? How can I live with his bastard in the castle?_

* * *

Folding her long letter in half, Ashara slowly made her way to the rookery, a silent Desmond trailing behind her. Everywhere she went, she felt the accusing stares of Winterfell's retainers and servants. They all knew about Jon Snow for months…yet they said nothing. She walked across the bridge connected between the fourth level of the bell tower to the second floor of the rookery and caught sight of Maester Luwin tending to the ravens.

"Lady Stark." He dipped his head politely.

"Maester," Ashara acknowledged _. At least Maester Luwin is kind enough to speak to me without a condemning glare._

"May I be of assistance, my lady?"

"I was about to send a raven to Starfall."

The maester tugged the chain around his neck before reaching for her folded letter. "Allow me, my lady." He glanced at her briefly. "You look troubled, Lady Stark. Are you ill?"

"Oh, I am in good health, maester. A little tired I suppose. I hear it is natural for women in my condition to be often tired."

"Mmm. Not stress, my lady? Stressing is not good for you, my lady."

Ashara sighed glumly. Maester Luwin would find out anyway…she looked at Desmond. "May I have a moment of privacy with Maester Luwin please?" she asked. Desmond nodded and strode away. Ashara waited until he disappeared into the bell tower before returning her attention the patient maester. "I do not belong here in the North," she confessed miserably. "How fast does it take for an argument to spread? I am not wanted here."

"You've only been here for a day, my lady," the maester reminded her. "No one finds home within a day."

"Everyone here knows about…him. They all know I will never accept him as part of my family."

"Who, my lady?"

"The bastard…Jon Snow."

"The bastard…" mused Maester Luwin. "A bastard is as much a living being as the child growing in your belly, me, Lord Stark…you. The bastard Jon Snow is a motherless infant. If I may be bold my lady, it is ironic you of all people proclaim you will have nothing to do with Lord Stark's son."

"Why me?"

The maester chuckled softly. "You are from Dorne are you not, my lady? When I was a mere acolyte in Oldtown, I befriended a novice from Dorne. The natural son of a Dornish lord, he told me that even as a bastard, he was raised as if he was a trueborn son. He was taught his letters and sums alongside his half-sisters and half-brothers and was showered with affection as any child would be. He also said that the Dornish considered natural children to be born of passion and love rather than lies and deceit. He further told me that when his father offered to send him away, his wife was horrified at the thought of him abandoning his own flesh and blood to the cruelty of the streets…even if it is a bastard." He eyed her. "Is it true, my lady?"

Ashara looked away, embarrassed. "Yes," she admitted. "Oberyn Martell raises his four bastard daughters alongside his brother's legitimate children." A lump formed in her throat. "Did Ned think I would accept his…child in the family as soon as I saw him?" she inquired with a frown. "Surely he would know I am like any other woman; seeing one's husband's natural children for the first time will no doubt be shocking."

"You should ask Benjen Stark on the matter," Maester Luwin advised. "It will be Benjen Stark who knows Lord Stark more than anyone – with the exception of the king of course, as they were fostered together in the Eyrie. My lady, perhaps it would be wiser to give the boy another chance?"

"Did Ned tell you of my plans to leave for Starfall?"

"I will not lie, my lady. Lord Stark did mention it last night when he talked to me at supper. Forgive me my lady, but you do not seem the sort of lady who will run to your childhood home when you sense trouble."

Ashara sighed and smiled at the perceptive maester. "I suppose I was tired and unprepared last night," she agreed. "Do you know where my husband is as we speak, maester?"

"Lord Stark is dining with the steward Vayon Poole, at his table in the Great Hall I believe. Do you need assistance to get there, my lady?"

"No thank you. I think I can find my way there." She nodded gratefully at the maester and turned to leave. "My lady!" Maester Luwin called. She looked back and saw him holding out her letter. "Do you still want this letter sent?" he said, a smile lingering on his lips. Ashara shook her head and took it from him. "I think I will write another letter," she said, beaming at him. "Thank you for your advice, Maester Luwin. If you had not spoken to me, I would be preparing a journey back to Starfall already." _Ned still remembers that fateful day he raided the Tower of Joy and slew my brother. He had always been gentle, kind and loving to me since the day we wed. I should learn to love Jon Snow for Ned's sake_. "For Ned's sake," she said aloud. For Ned's sake she will love Jon Snow…eventually.

* * *

 **Currently there are four Sand Snakes: Obara (13), Nymeria (10), Tyene (8) and Sarella (4). I considered writing a chapter about Ned and Ashara travelling to Winterfell, but as it would be basically riding, I thought it would be a little boring - I was also impatient to describe Winterfell and Ashara's thoughts of it. I'm glad you guys enjoyed reading this story up to now :) Tyrion will be part of the story, but a little later as he would only be around 11 years old at the moment. Question: how would you address a younger son of a lord who is not a knight (Eg. Benjen Stark)? Would you still call them a lord (Eg. Lord Benjen) or just their plain name?**


	10. Eddard IV

"How is your lady wife?" Ned offered his steward a cup of mint tea. He found tea a more calming beverage than ale or wine. "Benjen told me she is with child again. You must be delighted."

Vayon nodded, accepting the mint tea. "We hope and pray all will go well with her pregnancy this time. If it is a boy, we will name him Brandon, after your late brother my lord. If it is a girl, she will be called Lyanna, after your sister. I will love the child if it is either a son or daughter."

"I am honoured," said Ned honestly. Benjen had written that many northmen had asked to name their sons and daughters Rickard, Brandon or Lyanna (or a name of some variation) after the war ended. He suspected there will soon be an entire generation of Rickards, Brandons and Lyannas in the North. He nodded as Vayon returned to discussing the stores. _He is a loyal man_ , Ned thought. _Benjen said he loved his office more than his own wife! No doubt that is only gossip_. The devoted Vayon Poole had no luck in siring children as of yet. Thrice his pretty wife's stomach swelled; thrice she gave birth to sickly babes who did not survive the touch of the harsh northern winds. _Hopefully the old gods will bless House Poole with a child this time_.

"…and with spring coming, the stores will be stocked more than ever," Vayon continued. "We are fortunate the latest winter was not particularly long. We still have at least two dozen casks of honey and fifteen sacks of sugar and salt. I also counted four barrels of salted mutton and beef among other kegs, vats, pots and crates in the storerooms."

Ned paused mid-nod as he caught sight of Ashara enter the Great Hall. Even in a grey gown, she looked beautiful. Realising he no longer had his liege lord's full attention, Vayon said quickly, "I can return another time, my lord." Ned nodded gratefully. "Aye. Perhaps tomorrow. Thank you Vayon." He waited as Ashara made her way to the dais.

"Lord husband," she said, sitting down on Vayon's empty chair.

"My lady," Ned returned icily. _If Ashara wants me to be cold, so be it_. "I thought you are planning to leave for Starfall."

His wife's gaze softened a little. "I considered it and decided to…postpone my plans. The people will think me a craven for running back home to Dorne. I may owe you an apology, my lord. My earlier words towards Jon Snow are insulting and unfit for a lady's lips."

Ned nodded. "I suppose it was unwise of me to show you the boy without any mention of him before. Would you like some breakfast, Ashara?" She nodded, her expression impassive. He signalled a servant and told him, "Hot bread, butter and honey and blackberry preserves, a rasher of bacon and a soft-boiled egg and a wedge of cheese, if you will."

"That is too much," Ashara protested as he poured her a cup of mint tea. "The bread, bacon and butter will do."

"You need a strong breakfast to have a strong son." The words echoed in his mind. His father Rickard Stark, had told his wife that every time she was with child. Ned remembered hearing it when his mother was pregnant with Ben. Even when she retched in the privy or a bucket ever once a few hours, their father had insisted she eat well. "Now what changed your mind?" Ned said curiously. "You were quite adamant in leaving for Starfall."

"I had a change of heart." She stared at him boldly as she sipped the tea. "That is all you need to know."

"You will treat Jon as your own son?"

"Until mine own comes along."

Ned almost laughed. "You _will_ treat Jon as your own son?" he persisted. "And you will never call or address him as a bastard?"

"Have I said Jon Snow is your… _natural child_ all morning, Ned? Did I beg and plead for you to rid him from Winterfell?" Her meal arrived and she attacked the egg with her spoon hungrily.

He looked at her suspiciously. It was as if Ashara had two sides like a coin; the jealous wife and a nurturing mother. He wondered if all women – highborn and low – were like that. Lyanna certainly had a temper, but she could play the sweet, docile daughter when required.

"It will be good for our son to have companions his age," said Ashara, drizzling honey on her bread. "Who better than his half-brother who will serve in his army when the time comes? My niece Daenerys will be a friend to our daughter if we happen to be blessed with one, and she may even serve as our future daughter's handmaid if needed." Feigned bastard or no, Daenerys Targaryen – no, Sand – will never be a handmaid. _What is Ashara thinking? She knows as well as I do who Daenerys truly is_. "Have you thought of fostering other highborn children?" his wife inquired. "I won't be surprised if the king asks you to foster his future heir. The queen confided in me that she feared all her children will be sent off as wards to other Great Houses."

"That is the best way to forge alliances," said Ned plainly. "If the lord is more than pleased with the ward, he will betroth him to one of his daughters."

"I am aware of that." She bit into her bread. "Are you not hungry?"

"I already ate with Vayon Poole."

Ashara continued eating, one violet eye on her food and the other on him. She finished her bread and started chewing the bacon; it was devoured within a few seconds. Following the bacon was the remains of the soft-boiled egg.

"There will be a feast in a few days," said Ned, breaking the silence. "All the Northern lords and their immediate families will come, most of them eager to see you. Some of the lords may speak to you harshly-"

"They want to see if I am worthy enough to be the Lady of Winterfell," Ashara finished. "If they like me, they will trust me as much as they trust you. If the lords decide I am a dainty flower from the south…they will tolerate me. Do not worry Ned, I will prove to them I am no southron flower."

"Southron star more like," remarked Ned dryly. He drained the rest of his mint tea. "You will treat Jon well?" he said again.

Ashara said nothing. She only smiled.

* * *

Ned found Benjen in the crypts, staring blankly at the stone tomb of their late father. The stonemason Ned had commissioned had known him well. Gazing at Lord Rickard Starks' tomb, Ned recalled how he would sit on the oak chair in the Great Hall with quiet dignity; his stone fingers tightly holding the sword across his lap almost matching the manner he grasped the hilt of the Starks' ancestral Valyrian steel greatsword Ice when he was alive.

"Lyanna is almost finished," said Benjen quietly, nodding at the faceless statue beside his father's tomb. "The stonemason told me both Lyanna and Brandon's tombs will be finished in a month or two. I wanted him to carve a wreath of roses on Lyanna's head, but then…" His voice softened further. "It will only remind me of that day in the tourney at Harrenhal. I wish Lyanna stayed at home…if she did, she would be alive and happily married to Robert Baratheon."

"Alive, but not happy," commented Ned. "Robert drinks gallons of wine, goes hunting for days and has an unquenchable thirst for women. Will there ever be a woman happily married to him?"

"He is the king-"

"King he may be, he will always be Robert to me. Giving him a crown had not changed him into a King Jaehaerys the Wise. He will always drink, hunt and take mistresses for the rest of his life."

"Does Queen Catelyn accept it without complaint?"

Ned nodded. "Aye. She is a good woman, our queen. She accepts his infidelities without an open complaint and tried to convince him to drink less. If there is any noblewoman in Westeros who did not marry Robert to be his queen, it is Catelyn Tully. I suspect she will be another Good Queen Alysanne." He smiled. "Catelyn is more suited to be queen than Lyanna ever will be."

"The people love Lyanna too."

"The _Northerners_ love Lyanna. The southroners think of her as the tragic and beautiful figure in a song the bards sing. Lyanna is of the North; she would not have known how to be a southron queen."

Benjen was silent. "I lost her horse," he blurted out.

"What?" said Ned, taken back. "Whose horse?"

"Lyanna's." He could not look him in the eye. "When you were in Dorne, the horse ran away. The men tried to corner her but she escaped. Hullen rode after her, but even he could not catch her. A few days after that, we received news of Lyanna's death. Now I wish Lyanna's horse was still here."

"You would only miss her more."

"Will Ashara actually leave for Starfall?"

Ned shook his head. "I should not have showed her Jon last night. It was my fault. Do you like her?"

"She wrote me a few letters when you were in King's Landing and I thought her kind. When I saw her yesterday…she reminded me of Lyanna. Do you think Ashara likes riding? Perhaps you can take her riding around Winterfell when she settles in." He looked hopefully at Ned. _I always forget he lost Brandon, Lyanna and our father so young._

"Maybe." Ned managed a smile. "You told me you considered taking the black to be a man of the Night's Watch?"

Benjen nodded determinedly. "A Stark always mans the Wall. Even when our father was alive, I considered becoming a black brother."

"You do not want to serve in the Kingsguard? There is still a vacant spot or two if you are interested. Barristan the Bold and the Blackfish both serve and you can join them as a sworn brother." _Ben, the Night's Watch is not as glorious as it once was; half the men there are rapers, thieves and murderers!_ From the dwindling number of black brothers, most likely only a quarter of them chose to take the black nobly.

"There is nothing for me in the south, Ned." Benjen's sad eyes reminded Ned of those of a desolate pup. "Lyanna went south and she was abducted; Brandon went south and he was murdered; and Father went south soon after and he too was murdered by the Mad King. No, my place is in the North. I want to forget all about the war and the deaths. When you were serving as the Master of Laws in King's Landing, you did not see all the bodies return in carts pulled by horses, some by oxen or mules.

"When you argued with the other councillors, I lit a candle every time Lord Reed sent me a letter regarding a cart entering the border between the Twins and Greywater Watch." He shivered. "I lit so many candles, Ned. When Lord Reed returned Lord Dustin's red stallion to his widow per your instruction, the poor lady raged with grief." A tear glistened on his pale cheek. "Do you know what she said to me before she left for Barrowton? My husband swore to return mounted on the steed, she said. That horse was the pride of Lord Ryswell's herd. How will I ever forget those words, Ned? I did not kill men like you did, but how can I forget Lady Dustin's words?"

Ned patted Benjen on the shoulder. "We Northerners swallow it and move on." His heart ached as he continued. "Though we pretend to move on, we will remember. The North remembers."

" _The North remembers_ ," Benjen repeated. He gave one more downcast look at the three tombs before ascending the narrow and winding spiral stone steps to the ironwood door. A chilly breeze kissed the back of Ned's neck as he followed Benjen to the entry of the crypts. It was no surprise that down here in the crypts, it was colder than say, the courtyard, but it felt…different. _Restless spirits_ , Ned thought. He shook it from his mind.

"Do not worry, Ned." Benjen opened the door, allowing another gust of wind to charge in. "Even if I do choose to be a man of the Night's Watch, I won't leave Winterfell until your son is born. When you have your heir, I will leave."

"There must always-" started Ned.

"- be a Stark at Winterfell," his brother finished. "There must always be a Stark manning the Wall too."

* * *

After tasting a portion of honeyed chicken, Ned was so full he could not take another bite. He smiled as Ashara laughed at a childhood story Benjen told her. _I am pleased she is making an effort to be happy here. I am never one for feasts, but this is an excellent opportunity for Ashara to know the Northern lords and ladies. Who knows? She may find a friend in one._

To his disappointment, Howland Reed had declined. Ned knew it was no slight at all; Howland's reasons are his own. For all he had done for him, Ned accepted the crannogman's vague letter of refusal. Besides, Howland had already met and acquainted himself with Ashara in Starfall.

Ned gazed down at the eight long rows of trestle tables. Closest to the raised platform were two Cerwyns of Cerwyn, Lord Medger Cerwyn's tunic bearing his House sigil of a black battle-axe on silver, his plump and rather comely fourteen year old daughter Jonelle sitting between him and his right hand man Ser Kyle Condon; across from them sat the pale blue-eyed Tallharts of Torrhen's Square: Ser Helman and his younger brother Leobald, the latter recently wedded to Lady Berena Hornwood and father of Brandon Tallhart, one of many Northern babes named after Ned's late brother; Lady Berena chatted with her brother, the jovial Lord Halys and his wife Donella Manderly, the former wearing a dark orange cloak displaying the brown Hornwood bull moose; and the amiable Lord Wyman Manderly sat on Donella's right, his booming laughs crushing the music played by the two bards Ned hired yesterday afternoon. Ned craned his head and saw more familiar lords from the flood of Northerners. The gaunt and large Rickard Karstark of Karhold, his thick beard and hair loose past his shoulders. His cloak of wolf pelt was clasped around his throat by the silver sunburst of his House; the proud and boisterous Lord Greatjon Umber of the Last Hearth, a large, heavily muscled warrior almost seven feet tall; and the cold Lord of the Dreadfort Roose Bolton, his eerily pale eyes focusing on his Ryswell wife. Ned suppressed a sigh. It came as no surprise Lady Dustin was nowhere to be seen.

"Who is she?" said Ashara, nodding at Lady Maege Mormont muttering to a man in Mormont colours next to her.

"Lady Maege Mormont," Ned replied. "She is the Lord of Bear Island's aunt. It must be the new Lord Mormont of Bear Island sitting beside her."

Ashara squinted at her. "Is she wearing…ringmail?"

Ned chuckled. "All women of Bear Island learn how to defend themselves from the Ironborn and wildings. Her brother Jeor told me that her favourite weapon is a spiked mace. Does a woman in ringmail astonish you?"

"Not really. I've heard rumours Oberyn Martell is teaching his daughters the arts of war when they are old enough to grasp a spear." She sipped her ale. "Have you visited Bear Island before?"

"Not of yet."

"Where is Lord Howland Reed? I was hoping to see him here."

"He had…crannogmen to deal with I think." _Why, Howland? Is there a matter amiss in Greywater Watch I have yet to hear?_ Then again, perhaps Howland Reed felt…intimidated by rather fierce Northerners such as Greatjon Umber or Roose Bolton? _Foolish thoughts_ , Ned chided himself. _Howland Reed fears more than the other Northern lords._

"Maester Luwin," he addressed the maester who sat on his right. "Have you received any ravens from King's Landing?"

"Nothing eventful, my lord," Maester Luwin responded. "The Lord Hand has written that the king chose his good-father Lord Hoster Tully to replace you as the Master of Laws. Lord Tully has continued with your laws and crime in King's Landing is still decreasing at a good speed."

Ned stifled a groan. _Robert, do you ever learn? Do you wish to endanger your queen and her family any further? Have you learnt naught from Jon Arryn? You must not give powerful positions to a certain family!_ Making Jon the King's Hand was expected…then he married Lady Lysa Tully, Robert's good-sister. Bestowing a white cloak upon the Blackfish was forgivable; he was a war hero from the War of the Ninepenny Kings and deserved a place in the Kingsguard. Naming Hoster Tully the new Master of Laws…unacceptable – especially in the eyes of the other great lords such as Tywin Lannister and Mace Tyrell.

"Lord Arryn did not say anything?" Ned frowned.

"You will have to ask him yourself, my lord," answered Maester Luwin. "Lord Arryn's letter did not go into specific details. I have it on my desk somewhere if you wish to read it later, my lord."

"How is the queen?"

"Her Grace is well and with child. The Lord Hand wrote that there was a grand tourney in King's Landing to celebrate the news. I suspect the king will insist on another tourney once his heir is born."

Ned nodded. "I prefer to stay here, but once the queen births her child, I will go south to King's Landing to celebrate with Robert. Perhaps then, I will try and convince him to choose another Master of Laws." He paused. Why did Robert not honour Lord Randyll Tarly with that post? Lord Tarly was a soldier and one of the most formidable commanders in the Seven Kingdoms; putting criminals in line should be an easy task for such a man. Besides, naming the Lord of Horn Hill as Master of Laws will surely please the Reach! "What of Ser Edmure Tully?" Ned inquired. "Did the king honour him too?"

"The Lord Hand did not say, my lord. I assume he did not, or the Lord Hand would have mentioned it."

Ned nodded, slightly relieved. "The last thing I wish is hostility between the Tullys and other Great Houses."

"Yes. We all want peace. Lord Arryn is a clever man; he will smooth relations between his in-laws and the other Great Houses. Perhaps it will take a marriage or two, but I am certain there will be peace."

"If only we are as optimistic as you, Maester Luwin!" Ned smiled as Greatjon lumbered up to him.

"Lord Ned!" the Greatjon bellowed warmly. "We all thought you developed a liking for the bloody south! Strange too as old Rickard died there like many of our good men! Now that you're back, all is well, eh?" He gulped down half his large flagon of ale, droplets trickling onto his beard.

"Greatjon Umber." Ned grinned. When he first met the large man, he thought him a proud and formidable warrior with the biggest and ugliest greatsword at his side. When Ned called his bannermen to arms, the fierce Lord Jon Umber had challenged him for a good reason. Whatever he said convinced the great soldier; he now considered the Greatjon to be one of his most faithful lord bannermen and closest friends.

Maester Luwin quietly moved to the empty seat beside Benjen. Ned nodded at him with thanks and the Greatjon sat down, a servant replenishing his ale. He grunted and eyed Ashara with interest. "Pretty wife, Ned." The Greatjon nodded with approval. "Instead of befriending death, you go south and come back with a beautiful bride! Your brother went south to wed a Tully; the Tully girl is now the queen and you married to the Sword of the Morning's lovely sister who is now carrying your child. Strange, eh?"

"How is your boy?"

The Greatjon chuckled. "Do you know what some of my men have begun to call him? _The_ _Smalljon_. Still a boy, but I plan to gift him a sword for his next name day. A small version of mine own blade. I love all my sons and daughters, but between you and me, Ned, I will always be more proud of Jon. Mmm! I heard a rumour you had begot a bastard. Is it true?"

 _The people will all know eventually_. "Aye," Ned affirmed quietly. The Greatjon grinned. _It is for the sake of love and honour I brought Jon Snow home. Mine own honour sullied for Jon's; a sacrifice I gladly made._

* * *

 **There will be another time jump between this chapter and next. Thanks for the help about that lord question I asked in the last A/N! It was very helpful :) Any ideas what Robert and Catelyn's children's names should be? I'm definitely not naming one of them Joffrey!**


	11. Eddard V

Ned winced again as he heard Ashara scream. He felt sick when he killed his first man in battle; the cries of a woman in childbed sounded more agonising. He felt himself pulled towards the godswood – he resisted. Ashara needed him here, not praying in the godswood.

"Stay calm," said Benjen, as he watched Ned pace around worriedly. "Walking around in circles will not help Ashara."

"What if she dies?"

Benjen looked uncertain. "Ashara looks able to carry children."

 _So did our mother_. "There is always a chance," Ned insisted. "Many women die of childbed fever, highborn ladies no exception." He huffed. "I need to go to the godswood, Ben. I cannot stand around here waiting…doing nothing!" He turned to leave, but the door to Ashara's chambers opened and Maester Luwin came out, wiping his hands on a linen towel.

"My lord," he said, dipping his head quickly, "Lord Benjen. Lady Stark-"

"Is she well?" interrupted Ned. "Has she recovered?"

"I am certain Lady Stark will recover within a day or two," answered Maester Luwin calmly. "She is exhausted and should remain in bed for the rest of the day, mayhaps even half of tomorrow. I will inform Gage to prepare warm soup with meat and bread for Lady Stark. My lord, Lady Stark is awake now if you wish to see her." He smiled. "Congratulations my lord. You have a son." He headed to the kitchens as Ned rushed in his wife's chambers, Benjen behind him.

When he entered Ashara's rooms, he was knocked in the stomach by a wave of heat. The bedchamber was usually warm, but today…it was stifling. Ned bounded to the windows and pulled away the heavy tapestries, breathing deeply as a light wind danced in. He smiled at a tired Ashara who looked twice as worse than a bloody soldier. Her black hair was tangled and strands of it plastered across her clammy forehead with beads of sweat. Her dry lips formed a smile as she cradled a sleeping babe wrapped in furs.

"Your son," she said, beaming brightly. " _Our_ son. Our little boy."

Ned stared at the infant, mesmerised. Although red-faced, the babe had little strands of dark hair. He gingerly caressed his son's tiny fingers. As if on cue, the baby's eyes fluttered open. Ned held his breath as he saw a pair of wide, purple eyes stare back at him. There was no doubt the infant was of Dayne blood. Ned took him from Ashara's arms and rocked him gently.

"What will you call him?" Ashara's weary voice interrupted his thoughts. Ned frowned slightly and chuckled as his son's tiny fingers curled around his thumb and squeezed it. "He is strong," he chortled. Ashara smiled. "A name, mayhaps? I don't think we can keep calling him 'the babe' or 'our son'." Ned laughed. Over the last few months, he and Ashara had discussed an array of baby names for both sons and daughters.

As the firstborn child – no matter the sex, though Ashara insisted it will be a boy – both Ned and Ashara had agreed to give it a good Northern name. Ashara had suggested Brandon or Rickard to honour the memory of his dead brother and father, but Ned ruled it out. "The North remembers," he had said. "The North always remembers. Naming my firstborn son after one of them…it will stir old memories, not all pleasant to some Northerners." Ned considered Torrhen…but his son looked naught like a Torrhen Stark.

"Cregan?" he suggested, remembering the Old Man of the North from a story his father once told him.

Ashara wrinkled her nose. "Cregan Stark? For a child of a Stark and Dayne? If our son has your grey eyes, perhaps."

"Osric?"

"Maybe a Northern name will not suit a child with my eyes."

Ned nodded in agreement. "Aye…" He continued to rock their son as he racked his mind for a suitable name. "Willem?"

Ashara looked at the infant and shook her head. "Raynold?"

Ned almost snorted. "That is a name in the Westerlands is it not? All the other Northern lords will think us weak for naming our firstborn Raynold Stark." He thought again and a name struck him.

" _Robb._ "

* * *

"I see you have placed your son in your old crib." Clad in black furs, Benjen went in the nursery and looked at his sleeping nephew. Ned nodded, smiling for the fifth time that afternoon. Ashara had fell asleep shortly after she agreed to their son christened Robb in honour of King Robert Baratheon and Ned carried little Robb to the warm nursery where an extra crib had been prepared. Today, the other two cribs housed no babes; Jon and Daenerys sat on a large furred rug, playing with two stuffed direwolf toys Ashara had made with Wylla's help during her middle stages of pregnancy. They had even managed to make a stuffed grey direwolf for Robb.

"Do you think the Northern lords will approve?" Ned wondered. "They always expected my heir to have a Northern name."

Benjen raised an eyebrow. "You are the child's father. You have the honour of giving him whatever name you please. You do not name your son to please your bannermen; you name him as he is your son, not theirs."

"Robb is a child of Winterfell."

"A child of Winterfell he may be, but foremost he is the son of Eddard Stark and Ashara Dayne." Benjen smiled at Robb. "The king will be delighted to hear of your son named after him. Oh…" he breathed as Robb opened his eyes and stared at him in wonder.

"Robb has Ashara's purple eyes."

"The first Stark to have purple eyes." Ben's own blue eyes sparkled. He looked at Daenerys quickly. "How is she?"

"Placid and happy I suppose. She is only a year old. She is healthy, comfortable and according to Maester Luwin, a perfectly bonny babe." Ned lowered his voice to a whisper. "As long as a Baratheon remains on the Iron Throne, she will never be safe. For now she is protected by the bastard name Sand, but when she grows up? Someone will eventually suspect her – her hair and eyes will more than give it away. All I can do is hope no one will send assassins here."

"Why are you telling me this?" Benjen tickled Robb's pink cheek with a gloved finger. "Would it not be better if you kept it all to yourself? The more people you tell, the more dangerous it is for all of us."

"I trust you Ben. You are my brother. If something happens, I want you to take Daenerys and run."

"What about Robb? Jon? You want me to abandon Winterfell?"

Ned shook his head vigorously. "Of course not! There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. You think me mad, Brother. Your eyes are asking why I want you to risk your life for the sake of the last dragon when mine own foster brother is the king. Our father, brother and hundreds of northmen died at the hands of the Mad King. Why should we save his daughter from harm?"

"It is the right thing to do."

Ned nodded with a heavy sigh. "Aye. If Robert did not hold such a murderous grudge against the Targaryens, I could have persuaded him to allow me to foster the last Targaryens as wards."

"What happened to Viserys Targaryen?"

Ned was silent. "I don't know," he said finally. "Have you set your heart on joining the Night's Watch? There is absolutely naught I can do to convince you to stay? Vayon Poole is an excellent steward, but Winterfell needs a castellan if the king summons me back to King's Landing. The people know and will listen to you – who better to be Winterfell's castellan?"

Benjen chuckled and shook his head. "Winterfell needs no castellan. You have your heir, and I have decided to be a man of the Night's Watch. We had this talk many times Ned, and no bribes nor threats can convince me to stay. I am as much a son of Winterfell as you, but for me, Winterfell holds memories I dearly wish to forget, and what better place to erase them from my mind than the Wall? What's more, you should have received letters from Lord Commander Qorgyle and Jeor Mormont. The Wall is in need of good, strong men. I will go to the Wall with as many volunteers I can find."

"You have not said your vows yet Ben. You cannot go around collecting and asking for recruits already!"

Benjen laughed. "Jeor and I exchanged letters for months, and he suspected I will not leave Winterfell until after your child is born. He sent a wandering crow to accompany me to the Wall, and _he_ can recruit men."

"Has he arrived yet?"

"Yes. I saw him talk to Hullen as they he tended his horse. The black brother will most likely head to the Great Hall shortly."

"Do you know who this black brother is?"

"Not of yet. However, Jeor Mormont mentioned a name…" He paused for a moment. "Yoren! That's his name! Yoren! Have you heard of him before?"

Ned nodded slowly. "A good man, Yoren. He's said to be one of the Wall's best

warriors until he suffered a shoulder injury. The last thing I heard about Yoren was that he was given the task of travelling around the Seven Kingdoms to find recruits and criminals to bring back to the Wall. I met him once, when I was still a ward in the Eyrie. Yoren took one look at me and said, 'you are a bloody Stark, Lord Rickard's son.' I have not seen him since."

"You will be tonight. Will you have a feast to celebrate?"

" _Another_ feast?" Since his return to the North, the only feast Ned had hosted was the welcoming feast. Frankly, he'd hoped not to organise another feast for at least a little over half a year.

"The other lords expect it. Robb _is_ your firstborn _and_ your heir."

Ned looked at him. "I suppose I can think it as your farewell feast," he wearily conceded. "I will go and tell Gage." _It will take the Umbers, Mormonts, Reeds, Flints of Flint's Finger and Karstarks at least a few days to arrive. A hastily arranged feast will never be a good idea…_

"Perhaps host one when Robb is a hundred days old?"

Ned arched an eyebrow. "A hundred days old?"

"It will give you time to prepare, send the ravens and for the guests to decide when to ride for Winterfell. Lyanna once said the heir of Winterfell always has splendid festivities to celebrate his birth." Benjen quietened. "Did our father have any celebrations when I was born?"

 _Not as grand as the festivities thrown at Brandon's birth._ Ned suspected their father only organised a small feast after Benjen was born; he was the third son after all. Brandon said Mother was ill…the first time she felt weak after labouring a child. "There was a feast," answered Ned. "I'm sorry Ben…I do not recall any other events. I was only a child of four when you were born. If Brandon was here, I'm certain he would've remembered more."

Benjen nodded. "At least there was a feast." He smiled almost sadly as Robb began to cry. "Is he hungry?" Benjen wondered.

"Milord." A buxom woman hurried in the nursery, bobbing her head as she caught sight of Ned and Benjen. "The little lordling has called. No doubt he is wanting some milk."

Not wishing to be exposed to a pair of large breasts heavy with milk, Ned and Benjen departed, leaving the children in the capable care of the wet nurse found and hired by Ashara with the aid of Maester Luwin. Together, they headed to the Great Hall just as a black brother stomped in, cursing loudly.

"Yoren!" Ned called, recognising him. The black brother looked at him and he grinned. "M'lord o' Stark! Lord Stark now, eh?" He trudged up to him and Ben and grinned again. Yoren was an unsightly man stooped with a twisted shoulder, his coarse and ugly features hidden behind a thick and matted black beard. Lice-ridden with a lingering foul stench and tattered garments that have long since faded to grey, he represented all the hardships of manning the Wall and serving as a man of the Night's Watch.

"Last time we met, you were Lord Arryn's ward," Yoren recalled, accepting the mug of ale a servant offered him. "Now you're the Lord of Winterfell! How things can change, eh m'lord?" He nodded at Benjen. "Benjen Stark. Jeor Mormont told me you'll be accompanying me back to the Wall to be sworn in as a man of the Night's Watch. Soon I will call you my brother, eh?"

Ben laughed. "Aye Yoren. Soon enough."

Yoren looked back at Ned. "Your master o' horse, Hullen, he said your lady wife gave birth. Congratulations m'lord. Son or daughter?"

"Son," Ned replied, gesturing for him and Benjen to sit beside and across him at one of the trestle tables. He turned to the waiting servant. "Some food and drink if you will," he ordered.

"Congratulations m'lord," Yoren said again. "An heir, eh?"

Ned nodded. "Robb. Robb Stark."

"Named after our good King Robert Baratheon the First of His Name!" Yoren raised his cup almost mockingly and drank. Ned said nothing. Yoren was known to be the type of man with little to no patience for fools. He also did not mince his words. "I hope our good king will bring stability to the Seven Kingdoms." Yoren wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "What we need is good stability. The Mad King brought nothing but death. Let's hope King Robert will remedy it with a long reign of peace. If he does, hopefully there will be more…honourable and voluntary recruits for the Night's Watch." He sighed gloomily. "The Night's Watch is not what it once was. Full o' criminals and vagabonds these days."

Ned glanced at his Benjen. His brother did not seem dismayed at the prospect of embracing thieves, rapers and murderers as his brothers. "Ser Denys Mallister is a man of the Night's Watch," Ned pointed out. "Hasn't he been the Commander of the Shadow Tower for seventeen years? Why doesn't he go and recruit young men? Surely he can-"

Yoren snorted. "Convince young noblemen to join because o' his valour and reputation as a former tourney knight? Pah. Besides, Ser Denys Mallister is more useful a soldier than a recruiter." His eyes swivelled to Ben. "You, lad. When do you plan to leave for the Wall?"

"I thought I was to leave with you?" Benjen looked puzzled.

"Tomorrow at dawn." _What?_ It came as a blow to Ned. He glanced at Benjen again and was reminded of the little brother trailing behind him, holding a small wooden sword during their childhood. "So soon?" questioned Ned. "Why not stay another day? I will have guest chambers prepared for you."

Yoren dismissed it with a wave of his scarred hand. "No need, m'lord Stark. I plan to recruit men on the way back to the Wall. On the way here, I saw people leave winter town. There will surely be an inn open still and now that spring is coming, there might be more volunteers. Instead of travelling on the kingsroad straight back to the Wall, I plan to journey through the North, stopping at villages in Bolton and Umber lands to find recruits before heading through Mole's Town to Castle Black. I hope your horse is well-rested Benjen."

"At least allow me to supply you with nourishment, waterskins and horses," Ned tried. "You cannot mean to ride all the way to Castle Black on one horse with low supplies – especially if you manage to gather recruits."

"That will be good," admitted Yoren. "M' thanks m'lord."

Ned nodded. "I am always happy to aid a man of the Night's Watch."

* * *

As the sun peeked shyly over the Northern mountains like a blushing maiden, Ned, Ashara and Maester Luwin gathered in the courtyard, all dressed in furs, to farewell Benjen. Clad in black furs with a longsword strapped to his back, Benjen glowed with excitement like a squire about to be knighted. He clambered on his horse as bags of food and drink were secured to the other steed.

"Promise you will write?" Ned handed him the reins of the second horse. "I hope you will visit us from time to time Ben." _Please do not leave. It's still not too late to change your mind. We can tell Yoren…we can tell him…_ "Stay safe," Ned said, a lump forming in his throat.

"I will," Benjen promised, his blue eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "Do you wish for me to convey any messages to Lord Umber? No doubt Yoren and I will meet him on the way to the Wall."

"Enjoy your journey to Castle Black. I heard not all black brothers can return south from the Wall once sworn in."

"I will." Benjen grinned at him. "I promise I will return for Robb's a hundred day feast. You may not even recognise me then."

Ned chuckled uneasily. "I will. You are my brother and unless you decide to be a Faceless Man in Braavos, I will spot you as easily as I identify Northern sigils on a battlefield." He watched as Ashara murmur words to Ben. Ben gallantly kissed her hand and waved farewell. Ned felt his heart sink like a stone to the bottom of one of the three small pools in the godswood. _Why Ben?_ Ashara gently squeezed his hand and they – along with Maester Luwin – all observed Benjen Stark ride through the great main gates across the drawbridge. By the time Benjen trotted closer to the market square of the winter town, to Ned, he was only a small speck in the distant horizon.

* * *

After ending a petty land dispute between the representatives of Clans Liddle and Norrey, Ned went straight to the nursery. Over the last two weeks, he had found himself spending more and more time with the children. Daenerys was a quiet babe, preferring to sit in front of the fireplace on the furred rug and calmly watch the flames greedily consume the large logs. Ned wondered if staring at the fire had anything to do with her Targaryen heritage.

Jon too, was reserved, reminding Ned of himself as a child. Ned oft found Jon's dark grey eyes staring intently at him as Jon rested in his crib or was fed by the cooing wet nurse. So far, Robb did nothing but sleep, cry and eat. Maester Luwin had assured him it was perfectly normal in a newborn infant.

Sometimes Ashara visited the nursery with Ned. When she did, Ned noticed she stayed a short distance away from Jon. Today was no different. "Why are you sitting over there?" he asked Ashara, who sat beside Robb's crib, her back facing Jon. "Would you not feel more comfortable facing the fireplace? You can still see and play with little Robb over here." Ned scooted over on the fur-covered bench, leaving room for her. He watched as her smile contorted into a frown. Please do not tell me you despise him again.

Ashara quickly glanced at Jon before muttering, "Jon's eyes. He is staring – always staring. If he does this as a babe, what kind of boy will he be? Please tell me there is a Northern House willing to foster him."

"No one will foster him," Ned reminded him.

"My lord." Maester Luwin shuffled in. "There is a man waiting for you in the courtyard. He bears the sigil of House Dustin."

Ned nodded and stood up. Kissing Ashara on the cheek, he left and hurried to the courtyard, pondering all the possible reasons why Lady Dustin would send one of her men here. Standing patiently by the great main gates was a tall man sworn to House Dustin of Barrowton. He held the reins to two horses; a chestnut brown rouncey and a red foal. It was astonishing the foal could even survive the journey from Barrowton to Winterfell.

"Lord Stark." The man dipped his head. "Lady Dustin ordered me to come here bearing a gift for the young lordling." He handed Ned the reins of the red foal. "It is from Lady Dustin's small herd of fine horses. She also instructed me to give you this letter, milord."

His mind shouting misgivings, Ned glanced at the letter. _Lord Stark, House Dustin congratulates you and your lady wife for the birth of a Stark heir. It is well known that your late sister, the Lady Lyanna, was a fine rider. Perhaps your son will be one too. Some say the bond between a lordling and a foal is as strong as one between a dog and his master. This foal is the product of my late husband's warhorse and another of my father's herd. I hope the little lordling will love his horse and be an excellent rider one day. Lady Dustin._

* * *

 **Thanks for all the Baratheon and Tully name suggestions! They're all very helpful :) If I don't use some for Robert and Catelyn's children, I will definitely use them for Stannis's child/children. As for the a hundred days old thing, I have a baby cousin (a little under 2 months now) and apparently in China, when babies reach a hundred days old, families celebrate or something. I felt compelled to add that in this chapter :) I originally planned for this to be a Hoster chapter about events in King's Landing, but I found the draft slightly pointless and wanted to introduce baby Robb haha.**


	12. Benjen I

The icy wind swarmed around Benjen, occasionally jabbing him through his black furs as he stood on the Wall. He watched the sun's golden fingers slowly creep up from the horizon against a canvas of pink, orange and blue; it was not any warmer than at midnight. Underneath the thick fur, Benjen wore leather and wool, a scarf wrapped around his mouth and the hood of his cloak pulled over his face. His sword hung at his side in a leather sheath and across his chest was a gleaming black warhorn banded with silver. Grasping the shaft of a tall, heavy spear tipped in iron, his fingers were stiff and frozen from the merciless pokes of the cold breeze throughout his watch.

Yet to swear his solemn vows, Benjen Stark had been assigned night guard five times already. Considering himself as green as some of the young recruits Yoren had collected during their journey from Winterfell to the Wall, Benjen enjoyed battling the harsh winds every night.

After a supper of hot pork pies and warm ale, Benjen would clamber inside the iron cage and yank on the bell rope thrice, hard. The ground slowly fell away as he ascended higher and higher…he was above the towers and still inching his way upward. Looking down, the starkness and emptiness of Castle Black was more than clear; windowless keeps, crumbling walls, courtyards choked with broken stone…the cage jerks to a sudden stop and Benjen would step down onto the crushed stone across the walkways of the Wall. Usually he would chat to two of his future sworn brothers, one leaning on the winch and the other holding the cage, before beginning his night guard.

Benjen watched the sun sluggishly rise before trundling to the iron cage, his legs as stiff from the cold as his fingers. Reaching the bottom, he headed to the common hall, his hood falling down. A ray of sunlight hit the back of his mop of dark hair as he pushed open the door of the great timbered keep. He made his way to the front of the large hearth – accommodating a small, crackling fire – and sighed with a relieving shudder as the frostiness melted from his fingers and his toes. If the Wall was this chilly at the beginning of spring, he could not help but wonder how cold it would be in the heart of a long winter.

His stomach yowling with hunger, Benjen accepted a bowl of thick cream of wheat with a generous spoonful of butter melting in the middle and a dollop of honey from Castle Black's main cook, Three-Finger Hobb. Only a couple of men had appeared for breakfast – no doubt other men who served night guard – and Benjen chose to sit at the bench with the best view.

As he ate, he heard cries and squawks from the crows nesting in the timbers of the lofty ceiling. He smiled. It reminded him of Winterfell's rookery. Spooning up more of the cream of wheat, a broad-shouldered man sat down opposite him with his own bowl of breakfast. "Nice, eh?" he said, nodding at the big spoon of butter and honey. "You don't get this in winter."

Benjen looked at him and his eyes widened. "Jeor Mormont."

The former Lord of Bear Island chuckled whilst maintaining a stern gaze. "I'm pleased you already know me by sight, _Benjen Stark_."

"I…I heard of your…your reputation, Lord Mormont."

" _Lord_ Mormont?" Jeor Mormont snorted. "I have not heard that in years! Call me Jeor or Mormont, whichever you prefer."

Benjen smiled. "Very well…Mormont."

"How is Ned?"

"Well. He is now a father as well as the Lord of Winterfell."

"Mmm. Congratulations. I will instruct my son to send your nephew a gift from Bear Island. Do you think a small spiked mace will be too much?" He chuckled as he swallowed a spoonful of his breakfast. "No doubt my sister Maege may deem it an appropriate gift for the heir of Winterfell."

"If Robb's mother was Catelyn Tully, she would be shocked. As it is Ashara…I will be interested to hear her reaction."

"Aye. Have you heard the news? Catelyn Baratheon had recently given birth to a stillborn son. Our king is devastated." You do not sound upset. Then again, men of the Night's Watch do not take part in the intrigues of the south. "Some have already begun saying it is a mistake for King Robert to take a trout as wife," Jeor Mormont continued, "Lord Tywin Lannister one of them. I suspect he desired his own daughter to be King Robert's queen."

"Poor Catelyn."

"Poor Queen Catelyn indeed," Mormont agreed. "I met her lord father before; a clever and ambitious man. Oh, Lord Tully may not look ruthless like the Lord of Casterly Rock, but he is one determined trout." He chortled. "Catelyn Baratheon would've been happier the wife of a highborn lord rather than queen. So much for the Tully words when the chance of being good-father of the king was in Lord Tully's grasp. If that was not all, he married his younger daughter to a man old enough to be her grandfather!"

"You are quite well-informed, Mormont."

"Everyone knows about it, Stark. Even here at the Wall. Some of the younger, more uncouth men were laughing about it. Of course a young maiden wedding an elderly lord has been done before, but do you not find it strange Lord Tully will agree to it when he is the king's good-father?"

"It is no longer our concern, Mormont. I thought men of the Night's Watch no longer keep an interest with matters of the south."

"Very true, Stark. However, you are not a man of the Night's Watch yet." Jeor Mormont looked at him intently. "Do you still desire to be a man of the Night's Watch, Stark? It is not too late to leave and return to Winterfell as Lord Stark's brother and the little lordling's uncle."

"Why do you ask, Mormont?"

Mormont shrugged. "A few nobles have changed their minds in the past. You have seen your future brothers; criminals, the lot of them. Are you still willing to embrace them as your brothers once you say your vows?"

 _Would it surprise you if I tell you I already befriended a few?_ "Yes." Benjen scraped the remains of his breakfast and swallowed it.

"What of those who raped and killed the innocent?"

 _Wouldn't those type of people be hanged?_ "Nothing you say will make me change my mind, Mormont," said Benjen coldly. "I will be a fool if I decide on a whim to return to my former life."

"You remind me of old Rickard Stark. Once he decides upon something, he will not change his mind." Mormont finished his bowl of cream of wheat. "Ah, before I forget, Lord Commander Qorgyle wishes to have a word with you."

"Now?"

"It is never good to keep the Lord Commander waiting, Stark."

Benjen stood up. "Very well. I will see him now." He paused. "Out of interest, what order are you in?"

"Ranger," came the swift response. "What did people call you when you were a son of Winterfell? The Wolf Pup? A pup no longer, eh? I wager you are like all the other knights and lesser nobles, wishing to be rangers?"

"I am content with whatever order I am placed in."

Mormont snickered, sipping ale. "Even a builder? I must say, I am quite eager to see you a builder." Benjen stared at him. He always expected Jeor Mormont to be a more…stern man who did not laugh once every few minutes. Stammering farewell, Benjen hurried out, feeling like an idiot. He made his way to the Lord Commander's Tower as more black brothers headed to the common hall for a spot of breakfast. He quickly climbed up the tower steps and knocked on the slightly ajar oaken door.

"Come in."

Benjen entered. "Lord Commander Qorgyle," he greeted. "Jeor Mormont said you wish to see me?"

The old lord commander glanced up from his growing mountain of papers in front of him. "Benjen Stark," he acknowledged with a slow nod. "Please, have a seat. How is your brother?"

"He is well," said Benjen cautiously. Why were both Jeor Mormont and Lord Commander Qorgyle interested in Ned's wellbeing? "Lord Commander Qorgyle, please forgive me for my ah, bluntness, but I doubt you summoned me here just to discuss Lord Eddard Stark."

"True. From what I heard, you are one of the most eager recruits the Night's Watch received in years."

"A Stark is always manning the Wall."

"Is that why you enjoy freezing your balls off every night?"

Benjen raised an eyebrow at the Lord Commander's words. "I enjoy _the view_ , Lord Commander," he said stiffly, "and a chilly breeze does not bother me; even at night. In fact, I am eager to face the snowstorms of winter."

Qorgyle snorted with laughter. "Ha! We shall see when it is winter again, now won't we? Anyway, that is not the point." He was stern again. "I saw you train in the training yard with the other recruits yesterday. You fight well, Stark. Quite well indeed. Did Lord Stark teach you?"

"No, Lord Commander. I learnt from Winterfell's master-at-arms. Sometimes my late father would instruct me, as would my brother Brandon. During Robert's war, I was the Stark at Winterfell and I practiced every day with any man willing to spar with me." He paused. Qorgyle nodded and motioned for him to continue, a look of interest appearing on his face.

 _I also sparred with Lyanna_. "That is all," said Benjen uncomfortably.

"I see." Qorgyle peeled a boiled egg on his plate. "I think your skills are wasted patrolling the Wall rather than training your fellow recruits. The Night's Watch is currently lacking a master-at-arms. Perhaps you will consent to fill that office for a short time? Mayhaps a day or two?"

"Why me, Lord Commander? Surely there are more capable and experienced soldiers willing to instruct a band of recruits."

"Do you know any that are not too valuable to waste?"

"To waste, Lord Commander?"

"Ser Denys Mallister is one of our best men, but he is better suited to the office of Commander of the Shadow Tower than master-at-arms. Call me a weary old man, but I rather appoint men I know than strangers. After Robert Baratheon was crowned king, a number of knights were sent here as punishment for siding with the dragons. Surely they are _all_ seasoned warriors and commanders who are more than capable of training recruits. However, I rather keep an eye on them for the time being than give them positions."

"I am only a recruit; I have not even said my vows. Lord Commander, what can possibly qualify me as acting master-at-arms rather than any man already sworn in as a man of the Night's Watch?"

The Lord Commander looked at him and said simply. "You are a Stark."

Benjen frowned. "If that is all Lord Commander, I think I will go. I'm afraid I must decline your request."

"You think I want you as acting master-at-arms due to your House name?" He stared at Benjen incredulously. "You fool! I am only fulfilling an order." Catching sight of his confused expression, Qorgyle added, "You know your letters, yes?" He pushed a folded piece of parchment towards him.

Cautiously, Benjen reached for it and read. _Swear in Stark as a sworn brother and acting master-at-arms. If you do, more able men will be sent to the Wall._

Benjen looked back at the waiting Lord Commander Qorgyle. "You cannot give me my vows yet," he said, alarmed. "I have been here for less than a month and my training has not finished yet." _This is all wrong!_ "What will the other recruits say?" he continued, panicking slightly. "The other black brothers will object to it surely! Lord Commander, you cannot swear me into the Night's Watch and make me the acting master-at-arms now!"

"I thought you want to be a man of the Night's Watch?"

"Well yes, but-"

"We need more _men_ , Stark." Qorgyle wearily sighed and consumed his second boiled egg. "What else can I do? This…this person, promised men – _able_ men. It arrived last night and I showed it to Mormont. He advised me to agree to it as the need for more men is quite dire already.

"Every second day, I send patrols east towards Eastwatch-by-the Sea and west towards the Shadow Tower every second day. Imagine how efficient and easier it would be if there are more men of the Night's Watch to cover patrol between the castles! Who knows? Perhaps in five years, there will be enough men to hold and patrol even the Nightfort."

Benjen arched an eyebrow. "Forgive me Lord Commander, but I cannot see how a few dozen more men will revive the Nightfort in five years."

"Stark, a few dozen more men will be a large difference to the Night's Watch; subduing wildlings will be simpler with more men."

"I see."

"Will you say your vows?"

Benjen shook his head. "It is not right. It is not honourable. I chose to be a man of the Night's Watch, not to ascend in the ranks by my name or orders and bribes written by shadows. However, as a favour to you, Lord Commander, I will help instruct the other recruits as much as I can."

Qorgyle sighed again gloomily and nodded. "You are an honourable one, are you not? I always thought Mormont was a man of honour, but after speaking to you in person…I will speak bluntly, Stark. I liked you more when you were the excited lad shooting volleys of questions at me on paper."

Benjen chuckled. "Aye." _You did not sound so desperate for men in the letters you sent me_. "Will that be all, Lord Commander?"

Qorgyle nodded, "There should be a couple of recruits heading to the training yard as we speak. Perhaps you should go and instruct them. There is one rather young recruit who is quite…ah, ill. He is only a young boy, but his carer assured me he will be a sworn brother when he is ready."

"A young boy?" Benjen could not hide his surprise.

"Aye. A Dayne of High Hermitage. A simpleton by the sounds of it. Honestly it would be a blessing for him to die, but we cannot be…selective of the number of men we need. Maybe you can turn the Dayne boy into a future sworn brother of the Night's Watch."

"I will try, Lord Commander." Curious, Benjen left the Lord Commander's keep and descended the stairs. As he walked to the training yard, he wondered who would possibly be bold enough to send that letter to Lord Commander Qorgyle. _A man of the Night's Watch gets what he earns_ , Benjen recalled from Mormont's letters. _I will earn my due; I will never be bribed_. The sound of singing steel was music to his ears as he came upon the beginning of a sparring session. Two men – roughly his age – laughed raucously as they clashed swords. Benjen surmised them to be the younger sons of knights or lesser lords. Their boiled leather must have costed a fortune – if they were farmers or miners. Before he could approach them, he caught sight of the boy Qorgyle mentioned.

Standing by the training yard stairs was a small boy of about eight years of age with silver-blonde hair and the distinctive purple eyes found in Houses Dayne, Velaryon…and Targaryen. The young boy's lips tightened into an expression a cross between a pout and a scowl, his eyes narrowing. Benjen walked up to him. His complexion was too fine to be a Dayne of High Hermitage. He looked…almost royal. Could he be…? _No_ , Benjen dismissed. _Ned said all the Targaryens except Daenerys were murdered._ He would never lie…would he?

"Who are you?" Benjen said gently.

The boy lifted his head and said proudly. "Viserys Targaryen the Third of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Prince of Dragonstone, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm." One of the other men nearby snorted and guffawed.

Benjen frowned. "No…Lord Commander Qorgyle said you are a Dayne of High Hermitage. Is your names Viserys?" The boy may be a simpleton, but surely he would know his own name!

"I am _not_ a Dayne of High Hermitage!" said the boy hotly. "I am the king! I am Viserys Targaryen the Third of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Prince of Dragonstone, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm! I am your rightful king!"

"And I'm King Robert," snickered another recruit.

The boy swirled to him and shouted. "Usurper! Traitor! I AM THE KING! I WILL HAVE YOU _EXECUTED!_ " It only caused more laughter amongst the recruits and black brothers.

"You are a Dayne of High Hermitage," Benjen repeated, ignoring the smirks of amusement. "You are Viserys Dayne of High Hermitage. Who sent you here? Was it your father? An uncle? Brother?"

"A cloaked man," the boy said grudgingly. "And I am Viserys _Targaryen_ , not Viserys Dayne. My father was king but he died; I am now king." _By the gods, a stronger man will break you into submission._

"You never saw his face?"

"No. It was always covered. Why does it matter?"

"What did he sound like?"

The boy glared at him disdainfully. "I cannot remember! The journey to this horrible place was long, cold and tiring! I slept most of the way and he did all the talking. Why do you care? Why am I even here? I should be at home with my little sister! Where is she?"

"Little sister?" Benjen frowned and slowly veered the boy away from prying eyes. "Who? Do you remember her name?"

He shook his head. "Our mother never named her."

Benjen pressed on. "Why didn't she name her?"

"She died." The hatred and insolence melted from his tone. "My mother died giving birth to my sister. When I carried her, I sometimes called her Rhaella, after our mother. Other times, I called her Alysanne."

Rhaella...

Queen Rhaella Targaryen.

 _By the old gods and new…the boy is no simpleton and he is not mad_ , thought Benjen, as he listened to him – no, _Viserys_ – rattle on about some storm and his mother's death. _Ned told me in his letters that there was a dangerous storm in Dragonstone when Stannis Baratheon launched an assault there at the end of the king's war. If Lord Commander Qorgyle told the truth, this boy should not know all this. This boy_ is _Viserys Targaryen. What is he doing here? The time of the dragons is over; it is now the reign of the stags. All the Targaryens should be dead or hiding in the Free Cities – except Daenerys of course. If the king catches wind of a Targaryen at the Wall…_

"You are unwell," Benjen lied, the guilt of telling a falsehood twisting in his stomach. "You were knocked unconscious many months ago. You are Viserys Dayne of High Hermitage, not Viserys Targaryen."

The boy frowned. "You are lying!" he accused.

"I am not." _Even a boy of eight can tell I'm lying_. "You are Viserys Dayne and your father has decided that as a younger son, you will be of more use here at the Wall rather than at your home in Dorne." Before the boy could snarl back, he went on. "Lord Commander Qorgyle told me everything. After your accident, your father did not know what to do with you and sent you here. It will be in your best interest to remember who you truly are – Viserys Dayne. Qorgyle had asked me to help you improve your swordplay. Will you be a good boy and learn to be a noble man of the Night's Watch? Or would you rather be sent beyond the Wall and…killed by wildlings?"

* * *

 **I never really enjoyed reading the chapters involving the Wall and the Night's Watch, but I thought it would be interesting to experiment with writing a chapter of Benjen there. It was not my favourite chapter to write, and I did not write Jeor Mormont as well as I hoped. I doubt I'll write many chapters in POVs at the Wall. Well...I probably will after the big time jump when Viserys grows up a bit more.**


	13. Eddard VI

Ned groaned as Maester Luwin placed a basket full of letters in front of him as he settled down in his solar.

" _Another_ stack of letters?" Ned said wearily. "Please tell me these are not _all_ from lords wishing for a more permanent alliance with my family." Once Robb had begun babbling in baby talk, a flurry of letters and gifts had arrived, some sent via ravens and others delivered by riders, not only from the North, but some from the lords of the Riverlands, the Reach, the Vale and even two or three from Dorne (most likely letters from his good-brother, Lord Dayne).

Many of his ancestors had wedded Northerners; his mother's father married a Flint and his father's mother was a Locke, yet a few married into noble houses of the Vale and more than one Stark wedded a Blackwood maiden. _Father affianced Brandon to Catelyn Tully to unite the North with the south_ , thought Ned. _Perhaps I should follow in his footsteps; a southron bride for Robb and a Northern wife for a second son if I am blessed with one._ Another thought suddenly crossed his mind. _What if I have a daughter?_

"Would you prefer if I read them for you my lord?" offered Maester Luwin. "I will be more than willing-" Ned interrupted him with a shook of his head. "I will read through them," he decided, reaching for letter at the top of the pile. It was stamped with the black bear sigil of Bear Island. "Please sit," said Ned, motioning for the maester to sit opposite him. "I wish to hear your thoughts about any of these marriage offers."

Luwin nodded. "As you wish, my lord."

Ned opened the letter from Bear Island, uncertain what to think. Usually the Mormonts only write letters to the Lords of Winterfell to warn them of potential Ironborn raids or an increase in wildling attacks. To his astonishment, Lord Jorah Mormont had written to him with a suggestion of a marriage alliance. "It seems Lord Mormont desires for us to unite our Houses." Ned handed the letter to the patient maester. "He proposes a betrothal between his eldest niece Dacey or any of his future daughters, and Robb."

Maester Luwin shook his head almost at once. "No my lord. A marital alliance with House Mormont will be a waste. Bear Island is lacking in valuable resources and Dacey Mormont is not ah, a suitable consort for Lord Robb." Ned frowned a little. "House Mormont is an old, proud and honourable house of the North," he pointed out, "and the Mormonts are one of the principal noble families sworn to House Stark. Dacey Mormont is highborn and niece to a sworn Northern lord. It qualifies her as a possible wife to my son."

"To the heir of Winterfell, Lord Stark? No Lord of Winterfell had wedded a Mormont of Bear Island."

"No Lord of Winterfell had married a Dayne of Starfall either."

The maester conceded with a slow nod. "Aye, my lord. The ultimate choice is yours to make. Think about it." He placed the letter on the table a short distance away from the basket. _He is right_ , thought Ned, picking up another letter. _If Robb and Dacey Mormont are to wed, we will gain nothing. The Mormonts are already loyal to us to the bone. If Jeor Mormont was still the Lord of Bear Island, I doubt he would even propose a betrothal between a Mormont and a Stark_. His eyes scanned the second letter; the content was less surprising.

"Lord Rickard Karstark," Ned muttered, throwing the letter onto the table. It fluttered down beside Jorah Mormont's letter. "His lady wife died giving birth to a daughter. Can you believe this? Lord Karstark is hinting at a betrothal between Robb and his newborn daughter with his wife not yet buried!"

"A bold move on his part, my lord."

"Starks have often wedded Karstarks. My mother's uncle Artos Stark was wed to Lysara Karstark and had a set of twins. I suppose I will consider Rickard's girl as a potential wife for Robb. Both of them are still babes. I would prefer Robb to grow a little more before choosing him a bride."

"A wise idea, my lord. I am certain you are aware that many powerful lords like to match their infants to other infant children of potential allies."

"Indeed. Oh, here is a letter from…Lord Royce."

"Another betrothal, my lord?"

"No…" Ned read the letter quickly. He had been acquainted with Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone – otherwise known as Bronze Yohn due to his set of bronze armour which was said to be thousands of years old and inscribed with protection runes – during his time as a ward of Lord Arryn and recalled him to be a tall man with large, gnarled hands with a booming voice; a man similar to the Greatjon. "Lord Royce said there is a strong chance his third son will join the Night's Watch," Ned told Maester Luwin. _Like Benjen_ , he almost added. "He asks if I can take him on as a page," he continued, placing the letter on top of Karstark's, "and even a squire if I am pleased with him."

"Lord Royce desires for you to foster his son."

"Essentially, yes. Bronze Yohn writes that his third son Waymar, is a boy of six who should familiarise himself with the Northern cold before joining the Night's Watch." He paused as he remembered his own experience of winter in the Vale. It was rather cold – not as chilly as winter in Winterfell though. "Fostering Yohn Royce's son is ideal for both Yohn and I," he admitted. "Waymar Royce will grow accustomed to the cold of the North and when Robb is no longer a babe, he may find a friend and possibly an elder brother in Waymar. What do you think of it, Maester Luwin?" He looked at the silent maester.

"An excellent proposal," Luwin acceded. "Fostering Waymar Royce will open the doors of a prospective marriage alliance with House Royce of Runestone, a _very_ powerful and influential House in the Vale. If you foster Lord Waymar, the time will come when Lord Royce suggests uniting his House with your own. I find it very agreeable for Winterfell."

Ned nodded. "As do I. After supper, I will write back to Lord Royce and you will send a raven to him once I'm done." He groaned as he saw the seal of the two blue towers of Frey. The temerity of that man…

"Read it," Maester Luwin advised. Ned stared at him incredulously. "The Lord of Riverrun refused his son's hand in marriage to any of Lord Frey's daughters or granddaughters. _Thrice_. Now that old man wants my heir to wed one of his girls? Why else would he write to me?"

Maester Luwin arched an eyebrow and nodded at the letter. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes like a sullen child, Ned opened it. As he predicted, the old weasel wanted marriage between Robb and one of his many daughters, granddaughters or even great granddaughters. "Walder Frey wants marriage," Ned informed the maester. "However, he says he will pay the bride's weight in silver for her dowry and I have the choice of choosing a Frey good-daughter."

"Generous of him, my lord."

There was one resource the weaselly Lord Walder Frey of the Twins did not lack: an abundant supply of descendants. "I will have to somehow decline," Ned said uneasily. "The Northern lords will revolt against me if I agree to a betrothal between Robb and a Frey."

"Indeed, my lord."

"Enough betrothal proposals for this morning. I will look at more of them later today perhaps. Robb is still a babe. There is plenty of time."

Maester Luwin nodded and stood up. "I must tend to the ravens, my lord. They need to be fed meat and water."

Ned nodded. "I will speak to you again later." As Maester Luwin shuffled out the door, Ned stood up and stretched, gazing out the window. The solar was too warm for his comfort. Giving the basket of letters one last glance, Ned left for the godswood with his Valyrian greatsword Ice strapped to his back. The wooden door creaked as he opened it and walked in. Three acres of old packed earth and close together trees, the ancient godswood of Winterfell had stood untouched for ten thousand years. At the centre of the grove stood an ancient weirwood with a face carved into it – a heart tree – poising proudly over a pool of black water. Ned sat himself down on a moss-covered stone beneath the weirwood and struck Ice into the layers of humus and soil that blanketed across the godswood floor. He stared at Ice's steel blade. Dark and smoky; like a brooding Stark. _How many men have I cut down with it?_ Ned wondered. _How many foes had it tasted? How many times have I wiped away the blood?_ Too many to count.

A breeze slithered in like a snake, hissing the words of the old gods…according to the tales told by Old Nan. Ned looked around serenely, recognising the trees as if they were friends. The sentinel trees armoured in grey-green needles stood stubbornly like soldiers whilst the ironwoods played the part of war veterans; those ironwood trees were said to be as old as the realm itself. Standing beside Ned were a cluster of might oaks. He leant his back against the weirwood with bark as white as bone and leaves dark red like a thousand bloodstained hands. He closed his eyes. Even with his eyes shut, Ned could still see the thick black trunks crowded close together with its twisted branches weaving a dense canopy overhead. The godswood was a place of silence. No bird nested or sang on the branches of the grim trees.

"Ned!"

Ned's eyes snapped open as he heard Ashara call his name. One of the wooden doors opened and Ashara herself came in with a letter. Ned smiled at her. "What are you doing here? I thought you said you wanted to spend the day with Robb in the nursery? Has he fallen asleep again?"

"A letter from Benjen," she replied, sitting down beside him. Ashara was not one to be concerned with dirt on her dresses. "Maester Luwin gave it to me with the suggestion that you are here in the godswood. I have not read it yet. I thought it would be better if you read it first."

"Why not read it together?"

Ashara beamed and gave him the letter. He opened it and smiled as he read. "I am glad Ben is happy," he said, missing his little brother. "I approve of his choice to refuse Lord Commander Qorgyle's offer to swear his vows early along with the appointment of master-at-arms. It is not honourable or right." _What is the Lord Commander thinking? There must be something going on at the Wall_. "I hope Ben will visit soon," said Ned longingly.

"He will soon enough," Ashara said confidently. "Next time we see him, he will be all clad in black, a man of the Night's Watch. What does he mean by 'the mad and frightened little boy of Dayne features'?" She frowned. "I do not recall having a cousin joining the Night's Watch."

Ned read the letter again, a sinking feeling in his stomach. "Perhaps a Dayne of High Hermitage?" he suggested.

"Perhaps. I will write to my brother and ask him."

 _No!_ "What I tell you must remain a secret," Ned said quietly.

"Very well…"

"Swear it Ashara. By the old gods and new."

Ashara gave him a strange look and said sincerely. "I swear by the old gods and new that what you tell me will remain a secret until my dying day. As we are in the godswood, the old gods have heard my vow and will hold me by it."

Ned nodded, satisfied. "Thank you." He lowered his voice to naught louder than Lord Bolton's soft whisper. "Do you remember when we first arrived at King's Landing and Robert ordered me to kill the Targaryens? You did not want to listen to it and left. That was when Robert allowed me to keep Daenerys as a ward on the condition I tell the court she died in the black cells from a cold or something. As for the boy Viserys…he wanted to see the body before he wedded Catelyn Tully. You were there that day when I showed Robert the body. You said nothing – for that I am grateful." He closed his eyes and sighed. "I did not kill the boy, Ashara. I am not one to kill children. There is no honour in slaughtering a child. I could not sleep that night. You thought I was ill. I considered smuggling Viserys out of King's Landing, but I knew it would not work. Thankfully on the next day, the eunuch Varys sought me out.

"It was he who offered to smuggle Viserys away to a place of safety. It was he who provided the body I showed Robert. I don't know how he managed to find a body of the same build and colouring as Viserys Targaryen, but it was done. I had no idea where Varys took the Targaryen boy…up to now.

"When Ben mentioned the mad Dayne boy at the Wall, all I could think of is Viserys Targaryen. Varys had sent him to the Wall. Daenerys is protected by the bastard name we gave her as well as Winterfell's walls. Viserys is not. I have no idea what game Varys is playing, but he assured me his actions were for the good of the realm. The Wall though? I would think Braavos would be a safer haven for a Targaryen. If Robert catches even the tiniest of whims of this, I fear it would not only be Viserys Targaryen's head on a spike. Daenerys will be killed…as will I for committing treason."

Ashara was silent for a moment. "Viserys Targaryen is no infant."

Ned nodded gravely. "Aye. He is a boy who was born a prince. Being sent to be a future man of the Night's Watch…that is not kind for him. No wonder the poor boy is confused. I hope Benjen can somehow tame him."

"How?"

"I…I don't know. I hope Varys knows what he has done in sending one of the last Targaryens to the Wall."

"Do not worry about Viserys, Ned. We already have a Targaryen to protect; it is enough for us. If Benjen already guessed the boy is Viserys, he will try his best to protect him from harm."

"Of course. I hope Benjen will know what to do."

Ashara folded the letter. "When I was in the nursery earlier today, Jon toddled towards me and called me 'mama'."

Ned stared at her, astonished. " _Jon_ called you his mother?" That was unusual. Jon had said his first word a few months ago (surprisingly it was 'Da-ny' rather than 'dada' or 'mama' or any other standard first word for a baby) but liked to remain quiet rather than talk.

"How can I tell him I am not his mother?" Ashara asked with despair. "When the day comes, I will have to tell him."

"When the day comes…" Ned echoed.

"Ned! Jon is your son! What do I tell him? He is not my son!"

Ned sighed. The time had come to reveal another secret to his wife. "Are you willing to swear another vow of secrecy?" he said resignedly.

Ashara frowned. "Another secret? Exactly how many secrets have you been keeping from me Ned?"

"This is the last one," Ned promised.

 _I hope._

"Very well," sighed Ashara. "I swear by the old gods and new that what you tell me will remain a secret until my dying day. As we are in the godswood, the old gods have heard my vow and will hold me by it."

"I am not Jon's father." The words tumbled from Ned's mouth as if on their own accord. He looked guiltily at Ashara as her frown deepened.

"Jon is your natural son," said Ashara flatly. "Of course you are his father. You told me that when I first saw him in his cradle."

"No. I lied. I promised Lyanna to keep Jon safe."

"You…lied?"

Ned nodded, biting his lip. "If everyone knows who Jon Snow's parents really are, he would be as dead as Elia's children. When I went to the Tower of Joy with six of my companions to fight against your brother and his sworn brothers, little did I know my sister was already dying…of childbed fever. Rhaegar Targaryen had impregnated her…"

Ashara's eyes widened. "Jon…"

Ned nodded, his eyes filled with misery and sadness. "Aye. Jon is Lyanna and Rhaegar's son. He is half-Stark and half…half-Targaryen. Robert would've killed him if he found out. To him, Jon would be the product of rape and a threat. If I did not claim Jon as mine bastard, I would have sentenced Lyanna's son to death for having Targaryen blood. Ashara, do you now understand why I allowed people to think I have sullied mine own honour and sired a bastard? Robert found it quite amusing; he laughed for days when he found out. All I could think of was Lyanna when I looked at Jon. I had hoped to mourn and spend time with Jon in Winterfell after the war, but then the king ordered us to wed. When we both arrived here and I showed you Jon, it was the first time I saw him since I sent him here from Dorne that day Lyanna died."

"You are his…his uncle."

"Aye. Only Howland Reed knew the truth. One day I will tell Benjen. He also deserves to know." He took a deep breath and looked at Ashara. "Knowing this, does your opinion about Jon change?"

Ashara squeezed his hand. "Not really." Ned's eyebrows rose. "You will always be a fatherly figure to him," she pointed out. "Let Jon grow up thinking you are his father. It will be the safest option for him. I will treat him kindly, but it will not be correct if he calls me his mother. One day when the Targaryens are no longer viewed with suspicion and hatred or hunted down like deer, you will tell him the truth. The whole truth."

"Robert will never stop hating the Targaryens."

"Who said it will be during Robert's reign?"

"When will it ever be safe for a Targaryen to return here without the fear of being killed? Robert will tell his sons to hate the Targaryens and they will give their own children reasons to despise the Targaryens too."

His wife quietened. "Jon will have to know one day." Sensing his yearning to cease the conversation about Jon, she changed the subject. "I saw a tiny spiked mace in the collection of gifts for Robb last night. Who would think that a safe, appropriate present for a child?"

Ned chuckled. "Maege Mormont. I will give the letter to you later, but in it she said something about having a collection of spiked maces as a child and decided to relinquish one to Robb."

"That is…kind of her."

"I cannot picture our son running around Winterfell with a mace in hand. With a sword, yes. A mace…"

Ashara laughed. "It will be good for him to learn how to wield other weapons apart from a sword. In Dorne, boys are encouraged to brandish spears before the sword. Arthur was always different." She grew wistful. "While our eldest brother learnt how to throw spears with the other young lords, Arthur wanted nothing more than to be the best at swordplay. He was soon considered worthy enough to be the Sword of the Morning and to wield Dawn."

"Our son will be a fine swordsman when he grows up. Why don't you go and check on the children? I will go and inform Gage that we will dine in my solar tonight…just the two of us."

* * *

Ned could not sleep that night. For hours, he tossed and turned, careful not to wake Ashara. A little past midnight, he lit a candle and slipped from his rooms and into the nursery. All three children slept peacefully in their cribs, a small fire crackling quietly in the hearth. Ned smiled at them and sat on a chair, watching them sleep silently.

 _Two of you have Targaryen blood_ , he thought. _Both of you are here protected by your bastard names. One day, you will learn the truth. I hope that day will not come for many years._ As he stood up to return to his own bedchamber, a stuffed animal caught his eye. It was placed on top of the pile of gifts he and Ashara had deemed 'safe' for Robb to play with. Ned examined it closely, careful not to set it aflame with his short candle. His heart thudded as he saw it.

It was a stuffed red dragon with onyx-studded eyes.

* * *

 **I'll be going overseas in a few days, so I'll update once more before I leave :) If there's good internet, I'll keep updating once a few days as I did for all the previous chapters, but if internet is dodgy, I'm afraid there wouldn't be another update until I return in January :( Anyway, for those who are tired of the R+L=J theory, I'm so sorry! I didn't really plan on Jon being Rhaegar and Lyanna's son, but it would make more sense in this story, so I decided to proceed with it. Originally, this chapter was meant to be from Roose Bolton's POV or Wylla's, but both didn't seem to be working well so I shelved them and wrote another Ned chapter :) Writing Ned chapters are my favourite :D**


	14. Catelyn III

Sweat glistened like jewels on Catelyn's forehead as she screamed in agony. At her side, the midwife soothed her with encouraging words and placed a cool, wet linen cloth on her forehead. Terrified thoughts swarmed in her mind. _My mother died birthing a child. Will I too?_

She howled as more pain rippled through her again; it was ten – no, _a hundred_ – times more excruciating than her moon blood pains. She breathed deeply, the Grand Maester's mutterings a faint buzz. "Where's Robert?" Catelyn asked before gasping as her contractions became more frequent. Where is my husband? It is said that the loving and devoted of husbands wait outside the birthing chamber; is Robert waiting for me?"

"His Grace is out…hunting," said Grand Maester Pycelle, clearing his throat. "I am led to believe that hunting clears His Grace's mind. Your Grace, the king loves you and cannot bear thinking of you in pain, hence he goes hunting."

 _Hunting?_

"Come now Your Grace!" urged the elder of the three midwives there. "The royal baby is on its way! You need to push!"

* * *

After what seemed like a journey through the Seven Hells and back, Catelyn finally heard the cry of a newborn baby. She remembered an infant's first cry well; when she was four, she heard Edmure's lusty cry; when she was six, she listened to the faint whimper of her feeble, unnamed baby brother before he followed their exhausted mother Lady Minisa Whent to the grave, or to the river, according to the Tully funeral customs.

"It is a girl!" a midwife said happily. "Your Grace! You have a little princess! Oh she will be a beautiful rose one day!" Groggily, Catelyn squinted at the bawling babe in the midwife's arms. "My daughter," she breathed, mesmerised. "She is all well? Bonny? Robust?"

Grand Maester Pycelle nodded, managing a small smile. "The princess's cry is strong. She is a healthy babe, Your Grace."

"Find the king!" Catelyn ordered, eager to hold her child. "Tell him he is now the father of a princess. He will surely wish to know before the court." Her joy melted as she recalled her mother's death. Lady Minisa lingered for a few hours before dying. _I must stay alive_ , Catelyn vowed, _for the sake of my husband, the realm…and now my daughter._

It didn't take long for Pycelle to find the king. Just as Catelyn began settling down, rocking the baby in her arms, the doors flung open and Robert strode in, his hunting horn dangling from his thick leather belt. He left a trail of muddy foot prints and smelled of blood and sweat, but there was a broad grin shining like the sun on his ruddy face.

"Cat!" he roared affectionately, swooping down and kissing her on the lips as Ser Barristan, Uncle Brynden and Stannis entered, the former two drenched from head to toe with sweat, their snowy white cloaks now painted with a mix of dirt and blood. Startled by Robert's loud voice, the baby wailed.

"A strong stag that one!" chuckled Robert.

"We have a daughter," said Catelyn, smiling at him. "Are you pleased?"

"Of course! A daughter first, sons will come later, eh?" He looked fondly at the infant, who stared back with beautiful blue eyes and tear-stained cheeks. "Even if we have one son and a dozen daughters, I will love our girls as much as I will love our son. Are you well?"

"I feel well…I suppose."

"Pycelle!" Robert turned to the Grand Maester. "Is Cat in blooming health as she was before she gave birth?"

Grand Maester Pycelle nodded, stroking his long beard. "Aye, Your Grace. The queen has recovered from her ah, ordeal quite quickly. However, there is always the risk of an infection."

Robert frowned. "Infection, eh?"

"Your Grace, it will be wiser if the queen remains in bed for another day or two in case symptoms of childbed illness occurs."

"Very well. I hope Cat will not spend too long in bed! As the queen and mother of the little princess, it will be her duty to attend the festivities and tourneys that have already been planned!"

"Perhaps a day, Your Grace."

Robert brightened. "Excellent! You have done well, Pycelle! Bringing a little princess into the world! Go and rest, Grand Maester! I expect to see you back in the council room when the next small council meeting is held. We don't want you falling asleep now, eh?"

"Thank you, Your Grace." The old man shuffled out the door. Catelyn bit back a cry as Robert took their daughter from her arms. He rocked her gently. "She has my hair and your eyes, Cat. Our own daughter."

 _Can we name her Minisa?_ Lord Hoster had once informed Catelyn, Lysa and Edmure – though mostly to Catelyn and Lysa – that one Tully tradition was to name one's child after one's father or mother. It was a custom used from time to time throughout the generations of Tullys of Riverrun; one sadly neglected by Catelyn's own grandfather. "I was thinking of naming our little girl Cassana," said Catelyn quietly. _Family, Duty, Honour. Always honour your lord husband's family before your own_. "After your mother," Catelyn continued. "What do you think, my lord? Princess Cassana Baratheon." No doubt she will have plenty more children, some of them daughters; there will always be another chance to name one of her future daughters after her own mother.

"A fine name," Robert agreed, his eyes glazed in deep thought.

"What is it?" Catelyn sensed something amiss. "Have I said something wrong, Robert? You do not want our daughter named in honour of your mother?"

"Nothing of the sort," her husband assured her. "There are a good many fine names for a Baratheon princess. Argella Baratheon…Jocelyn Baratheon…Elenei Baratheon…Cassana Baratheon…all strong names for a strong daughter of the House Baratheon. However, I thought of another name for our girl."

"What…what is it, Robert?"

"Lyanna."

Catelyn stared at him, astounded. _Is he japing?_ He must be japing. Apparently Stannis thought so too.

"A terrible jest, Your Grace," Stannis commented. "Lyanna is a Northern name, not suitable for a daughter of our House. Peace between the noble houses of the Seven Kingdoms is almost secure and you wish to renew old grudges by naming your daughter after the Stark lady who was partially responsible for starting that damned war? A very poor jest, Your Grace."

Robert reddened and growled. "It is no jest, Stannis! Frankly, I am surprised you know what a jape even is! I never heard you fucking say one nor laugh at one! Seven Hells! You're still as grim as a fucking statue! I am not japing. I will name my daughter after the one I loved. The one I started a fucking war for. My daughter _will_ be called Lyanna, and the next person who dares to oppose it will find themselves a head short!" He glared around menacingly. Catelyn lowered her gaze, humiliated. _After all this time, Robert Baratheon is still infatuated with Lyanna Stark…and she is dead._

Stannis stared at Robert emotionlessly. "I hope Lord Tully does not hear about this," he said stiffly. "He will not be pleased to know you are still in love with the Stark girl now you are husband to his daughter. Imprison me if you must; have me executed if you so desire. You know I speak true." He bowed ungracefully at Robert and Catelyn and marched out.

"Please do not fight with Stannis," Catelyn pleaded on impulse. "We will call our daughter Lyanna…after Lyanna Stark. Lord Stark will be delighted. Robert, I beg you, don't argue with Stannis."

"I don't see why you should defend him." Robert snorted derisively. "Stannis certainly does not deserve your support."

"He is still your brother."

"So be it. I will summon him after supper and tell him we expect him to attend the tourney in honour of _Lyanna's_ birth. If he refuses, I will banish him to that godforsaken island of Dragonstone."

Catelyn nodded. "Thank you Robert."

Robert gave her a strange look. "It should be Stannis thanking me, not you," he said gruffly. "Rest. You need your strength. I will take Lyanna to the nursery and see to it she is comfortable."

Catelyn nodded again, suddenly feeling drained of energy. "Thank you," she whispered. Closing her eyes, she instantly fell asleep.

* * *

"Jon fears I am too weak to give birth in a stifling place like here," Lysa said miserably. "He will send me to the Eyrie in a week. Oh why can't I stay here with you, Cat? I _hate_ the Eyrie!"

"The Eyrie is a lovely place," said Catelyn soothingly, resting her head against two plump pillows as she smiled at her pouting sister. "Your future son will be the next Lord of the Eyrie; where better for him to be born? Lord Stark wanted nothing more than his heir to be born in Winterfell. It will be safer for you in the Eyrie, Lysa. You will be well-protected there."

"I am well-protected here! I have Jon, you, Father, Uncle Brynden…"

Catelyn shook her head indulgently. Uncle Brynden's first and chief obligation was to guard the king; his second was to protect her. If Uncle Brynden was not family, ensuring Lysa's safety would not be on his priority list at all. "You will be safer in the Eyrie," she said gently. "Your last two pregnancies have not ah, ended well, and Lord Arryn is only concerned for your health-"

"He only fears I will not bear him a son!" Lysa's voice became shrilly – far shriller than before.

"Lysa…he is your husband and it is his duty to care for you. You will love it in the Eyrie. All his bannermen and loyal supporters will keep you from harm. They wish to see their Lady of the Eyrie too."

"I won't be with you. I will be alone." _We highborn daughters all have to bear the burden of leaving our home, our parents, our sisters and brothers…you need to grow up, Lysa. You have responsibilities now._

"I will visit," Catelyn promised, "and a month or two after you give birth, you will return to King's Landing with your baby. Robert will be more than happy to allow his lord Hand's son to stay in the royal nursery. Besides, Lyanna will need companions when she grows up. Who better than her cousin?"

"What if I give birth to a girl?"

"Lord Arryn will love her as he would any son."

Lysa nodded, unconvinced. "Lyanna will be beautiful," she said, smiling at the sleeping baby in an old cradle constructed from lacquer black wood etched with carvings of prancing stags. Covering baby Lyanna were yellow blankets. Robert had more than ensured she be surrounded by Baratheon colours. At times, she was even swaddled in a goldspun mantle. It had only been two days yet it was clear Lyanna was already the apple of Robert's eye.

"She will twist him around her little finger," laughed Catelyn.

"She will twist him around her little finger…" echoed Lysa, her expression one of nostalgia. " Littlefinger… _Petyr_ …" Catelyn looked at her sharply. "What did you say?" Lysa giggled and said dreamily. "Petyr Baelish. Do you remember when we called him Littlefinger? Edmure thought of it first. Petyr was always _so_ clever and _so_ helpful and kind."

Catelyn frowned. "Father sent him home," she reminded Lysa. Father was too ashamed at the prospect of his ward losing a duel with Rickard Stark's heir. "I will anger Father if I call Petyr to court."

"You are the queen." Lysa pouted. "King Robert will agree to anything. Petyr is our old friend. Do you not miss him?"

 _It will be inappropriate for the queen to be seen with an old friend_. "Of course I miss him," said Catelyn cautiously. "I don't think it is…proper for a lady of my position to invite a childhood _male_ friend to court. Rumours will spread and the lords and ladies of the court will talk. I know you miss Petyr, but I cannot invite him to court. You can always summon him to see you in the Eyrie; his House is of the Vale, is it not?"

Lysa nodded, brightening up considerably. "I will go and see to the packing at once!" she said, embracing Catelyn and kissing her on the cheek. "Oh! The sooner I leave for the Eyrie, the sooner I can see Petyr again! Oh Cat, I was wrong to have thought I would be alone in the Eyrie! How silly of me! I will have Petyr there by my side! I will stay here for Lyanna's name day celebrations of course, but I will ask Jon if I could leave for the Eyrie earlier!" She clapped her hands with joy and almost ran out the nursery, delight written all over her fair face. Catelyn sighed and ran her fingers through her thick auburn hair. _I have failed in my duty as a sister and a Tully_ , she thought sadly. _I should have made her see the truth of the world; life is not a sweet song sung by bards. If only I'd taught her to put the importance of family, duty and honour before her own desires…_

She smiled as baby Lyanna moved her lips in her sleep. Catelyn could watch her daughter sleep all day. _I should prepare myself_ , she decided, standing up and giving Lyanna one final smile. _The Starks will be arriving at any time now. I hope they will stay here a few more weeks after the celebrations_. She had enjoyed her conversations with Ashara; reading Ashara Stark's letters were not exactly the same as speaking to her in person.

Closing the oaken door quietly behind her, she walked gracefully to her own chambers, nodding as passing lords and ladies murmured, "Your Grace." Waiting for her in front of a large, weirwood-framed floor length mirror, were two of her half a dozen handmaids, Lady Alerie and Lady Blackwood. Catelyn's father had warned her of the dangers of befriending a Tyrell (even one by marriage) and on more than one occasion, offered to introduce her to a number of highborn ladies from the Riverlands. "I rather you befriend a bloody Frey than a prickly rose of the Reach," her father had grumbled at least thrice. Catelyn had not bothered to remind him that it was he who betrothed Edmure to Lady Leyla Hightower…who was Alerie's younger sister.

"Your Grace." The handmaids and noble ladies curtsied as Catelyn entered her rooms. Catelyn dipped her head and smiled. "This is a surprise," she commented to Lady Alerie and Lady Blackwood. "Should you not be in your own chambers, being prepared to greet the arriving parties?"

"My husband has decided for us to meet Lord and Lady Stark at the evening feast tonight, Your Grace," explained Alerie. "I have enough time to aid you dress before mine own handmaids help me look presentable."

"And I must help Your Grace dress before I am to look respectable enough to meet Lord and Lady Stark with my husband," added Lady Blackwood.

"How many times must I remind you to call me Catelyn?" Despite her tone of exasperation, Catelyn smiled at her close companions. She turned and addressed her handmaids. "Fetch my new gown if you will. I think now will be a good time to wear it." The handmaids obeyed, leaving and returning shortly, the former carefully carrying a beautiful gown of silk and the latter clutching a pair of soft black doeskin slippers. Within minutes, Catelyn had donned the new gown and comfortable slippers. As Lady Alerie and Lady Blackwood bickered over which jewels suited Catelyn more, Catelyn stared at herself in the mirror.

The gown was a little too low cut than she was accustomed to, but it fitted her well and was comfortable. Like the majority of her gowns, it was designed in the fashion of a dress from the Riverlands. However, it was black and gold; House Baratheon colours. Black samite flowed from her shoulders down to her waist, forming a vee cut and revealing a triangle of golden satin over her chest. The skirts were long, the black samite slashed from the silver belt, illuminating more golden satin; swirls of gold were also sewn over the black samite that bordered the triangle of gold on her chest, more swirls glittering on her outer skirt. Catelyn smiled as she slowly turned to her right. The seamstresses had designed the sleeves longer than her usual ones, and she liked it. _Perhaps it is time for a change after all_ , she thought, Lady Blackwood placing a golden pendant around her slim neck. She sat down in front of her vanity as the maids reached for combs, jewels, ribbons and other hair accessories.

If Catelyn was in Riverrun, she would have left her hair out cascading down her back; as she was in the capital, she could not go around with her hair hastily brushed. Catelyn's hair braided and coiled, Lady Alerie had the honour of placing a silver diadem encrusted with sparkling onyxes on top of Catelyn's head. "You look beautiful," said Lady Blackwood approvingly. "Lord Stark's heart will melt like snow in summer when he sees you."

"Lord Stark is a married man," Catelyn reminded him. "His heart should melt like snow in summer when he sees his wife, not me."

"Very true, Your Grace," agreed Lady Alerie. "However, Lady Blackwood was quite right. You look splendid, Your Grace."

Catelyn laughed. "You will look divine too," she said knowingly. Lady Alerie Hightower always dressed magnificently on significant occasions…well, on any ordinary occasion too.

"I cannot look finer than you, my queen."

"Your Grace." The door opened and Uncle Brynden peeked in. "Lady Alerie, Lady Blackwood." He nodded politely at the two ladies present. "The Starks have arrived," he informed Catelyn. "Lord Arryn is escorting them to the Great Hall as we speak. Are you ready, Your Grace?"

Catelyn nodded. "Yes, Uncle." Farewelling her two companions, she took her uncle's arm and walked with him to the Great Hall, her head held high. Her neck ached, but she was determined not to look weak. _You are the queen,_ she thought to herself. _You must now play the part of queen_. Robert and Stannis were already in the Great Hall, the former sitting uncomfortably on the Iron Throne and the latter standing rigidly, tight-lipped and scowling like the ugly gargoyle statue in the garden. Catelyn suspected Robert hated that particular statue and planned to ship it to Dragonstone one day. She would not miss it much, if not at all.

"Your Grace." Stannis dipped his head almost mechanically once he caught a glimpse of Catelyn. "I am delighted you have decided to wear the colours of our House, Your Grace," he added, nodding approvingly at her gown. "After all, it is only fitting for the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms to wear the colours of the royal house rather than those of her father's House." Catelyn smiled. She had decided to take his words as a compliment.

The iron-and-oaken doors swung open and the herald announced. "Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, and his lady wife, Lady Ashara Stark!"

Catelyn's smile broadened as the solemn Lord Stark and the grinning Ashara entered, both still in their stained travelling attire. "Your Graces," they said in unison as they knelt.

"Ned! Ashara! Get up!" ordered Robert, lumbering down the steps of the dais towards them. "No more bowing and bloody kneeling. I have enough of that here as it is." He hugged Lord Stark and then Ashara. "You finally arrive Ned!" Robert said to Lord Stark. "I need a man like you in my court again! Day and night, all I hear is Stannis's constant whining and flattery from lickspittles like that blasted Fat Flower of Highgarden!" Catelyn laughed lightly alongside Eddard Stark and Ashara. When Robert began speaking again, Catelyn could not help but beam, knowing full well what Robert was implying.

"…we have been close friends since we were fostered at the Eyrie," Robert was saying. "I've often considered you my brother; we would've been brothers bound by blood if Lyanna was still alive. It is still not too late. You have an infant son. I have a newborn daughter. Once of age, your Robb and my Lyanna will wed; we will finally join our houses as we once would have done."

* * *

 **This was one of my favourite chapters to write! I hope you've enjoyed reading it! I know a lot of you wanted Sansa to be Catelyn's daughter, but I have other plans for her which I cannot wait to write! I'm leaving overseas tomorrow morning, so this will be the last chapter of the year...unless there is good internet and time for me to update. In case I cannot update, I just want to say thank you to all those who reviewed, favourited and followed and read this story so far. Every time I receive an email stating a favourite or follow alert or a review, it always made my day and motivate me to continue writing! :D**


	15. Benjen II

Butterflies fluttered in Benjen's stomach as he forced himself to swallow a bit of porridge and chew a rash of bacon. Usually he enjoyed eating Hobb's porridge – it reminded him of breakfast at Winterfell – but that day, it tasted like mush as opposed to its usual oaty flavour. Benjen drained his cup of ale in one gulp. It did not steady his nerves as he hoped.

"Nervous?" Ser Jaremy Rykker sat down opposite him with a bowl of porridge and a plate stacked with slices of bread and bacon. Another knight, Ser Alliser Thorne, sat beside him carrying two mugs of ale. Ser Jaremy pushed the plate of bread and bacon towards Ser Alliser and began spooning blobs of porridge into his mouth. _How could a man have such an appetite at a time like this?_ Benjen had never felt more nervous. After months of vigorous training, hunting, farming and other activities such as tending the horses, milking the cows, gathering firewood and helping Hobb cook the meals, it was decided that Benjen was ready to swear his vows. While he trained, hunted and farmed, Benjen managed to avoid having another conversation with the Lord Commander and Viserys…Dayne. After he deduced who Viserys truly was, he informed Castle Black's maester, Aemon, that the boy was ill and it would be in the Night's Watch's best interest to segregate Viserys for the time being. Thankfully, the kind maester agreed. "Viserys will be safe with me," Maester Aemon promised.

I hope I will never have to see Viserys again, thought Benjen, as he said to Ser Jaremy. "Aye. Should I be?"

Ser Alliser snorted coldly. "The only reason you will be nervous is if you plan to be a craven and crawl away a minute before we swear our vows." His black eyes bore into him. "Are you a craven, Stark?"

Benjen could not help but look back at Thorne with mild dislike. Around thirty seven years of age, Ser Alliser Thorne was a slim and sinewy man, dry and hard, with black hair and eyes like chips of onyx. Humourless, bitter and rather mean-spirited, At times, Ser Alliser would treat his fellow recruits and the other men with a thin smile. Like Ser Jaremy, he joined the Night's Watch for supporting House Targaryen during Robert's war.

"I am no craven," said Benjen icily. "I always wanted to be a man of the Night's Watch. I came here willingly…unlike you." He expected Thorne to give him a very chilling glare; he did not expect Thorne to mirthlessly laugh. A hundred pairs of eyes swivelled towards them as Thorne's cackle bounced off the timber walls of the common hall.

"What makes you think I was forced to come here?" Thorne said mockingly, ignoring the stares. "I too came here willingly – to avoid an unjust _execution_ , as did Rykker and many others."

"You had no choice," Benjen argued. "Lord Lannister said it was either to take the black or be executed."

"I was to be executed for siding with the Mad King. My House was sworn to the Crownlands. Do you think I had a choice to choose who to support? I chose to come here. If I was unwilling, I would have chosen death. At least that would be quick and swift." He stared challengingly at him as he finished drinking the rest of his warm ale.

 _I will not concede_. "I find it hard to believe."

Thorne shrugged. "Don't believe it then." He eyed Benjen with loathing and muttered. "I never liked you Starks," before stalking away. Rykker snorted and returned to his meal.

"Should he not hate Lannisters more?" said Benjen curiously. "Lord Lannister gave you and him the choice between taking the black and death."

Rykker shrugged. "If you have not noticed, Thorne prefers to keep his secrets to himself. Who knows? Perhaps your brother wounded him in a battle. Maybe Thorne was in love with Lady Ashara too and was jealous Lord Stark was chosen to wed the lady of House Dayne."

Benjen choked on his porridge. Thorne? In love?

"I jest," said Rykker hastily. "A rather poor one, I may add. Oh look, our fellow recruits are heading out. Shall we go?" Benjen nodded. Together, they left the common hall, crossing the weed-strewn courtyard to the sept.

Winterfell had no sept; the only sept Benjen had seen was the ruined sept in Harrenhal during the Harrenhal tourney. As Benjen was of the old gods, he was far more interested in the Harrenhal godswood which was walled over twenty acre, with the weirwood heart tree carved with a twisted mouth and flaring eyes than a ruined old sept.

Entering Castle Black's sept, Benjen squinted as the great crystal caught rays

of the morning light as it streamed through the south-facing window and spread it in a rainbow on the altar. Benjen took his place beside Ser Jaremy and watched the silent septon – Septon Celladar – swing a censer, filling the air with fragrant incense, so sickly sweet that made Benjen feel slightly nauseous.

"Celladar looks sober," Benjen heard a recruit behind him mutter. "Last time I saw him, he stank of wine." He was silenced when the high officers arrived. First was the ancient Maester Aemon who shuffled in, leaning on the steward Clydas. Bald, wrinkled, shrunken and blind, Aemon's mind was as sharp as his hearing, and he carried much-valued counsel; Lord Commander Qorgyle resplendent in a black wool doublet followed, looking less weary than the last time Benjen had spotted him from the distance; old Ser Denys Mallister even ventured down from the Shadow Tower, his black cloak clasped by House Mallister's silver eagle; and behind him came the senior members of the three orders of the Night's Watch: the rangers, the stewards and the builders.

Lord Commander Qorgyle stood before the altar and cleared his throat. "You came to us as outlaws," he began, "poachers, rapers, debtors, killers, and thieves. You came to us children. You came to us alone, in chains, with neither friends nor honour. You came to us rich, and you came to us poor. Some of you bear the names of proud houses. Others have only bastards' names, or no names at all. It makes no matter. All that is past now. On the Wall, we are all one house.

"At evenfall, as the sun sets and we face the gathering night, you shall take your vows. From that moment, you will be a Sworn Brother of the Night's Watch. Your crimes will be washed away, your debts forgiven. So too you must wash away your former loyalties, put aside your grudges, forget old wrongs and loves alike. Here you begin anew.

"A man of the Night's Watch lives his life for the realm. Not for a king, nor a lord, nor the honour of this house or that house, neither for gold nor glory nor a woman's love, but for the _realm_ , and all the people in it. A man of the Night's Watch takes no wife and fathers no sons. Our wife is duty. Our mistress is honour and you are the only sons we shall ever know.

"You've learned the words of the vow. Think carefully before you say them, for once you've taken the black, there's no turning back. The penalty for desertion is death." Qorgyle paused and looked around. A lump formed in Benjen's throat. _I always wanted to man the Wall_ , he thought. _I will not run away_. "Are there any among you who wish to leave our company?" Qorgyle asked. "if so, go now, and no one will think less of you." _They might._

No one moved.

"Well and good," said Qorgyle, almost sighing with relief. "You may take your vows here at evenfall, before Septon Celladar and the first of your order. Do any of you keep to the old gods?"

Benjen stood. "I do, my lord."

"As do I my lord," added a voice behind him. Benjen could not resist turning around. His blue eyes fell upon the other recruit and recognise his brooch to be a silver pinecone; the pinecone of Clan Liddle.

Lord Commander Qorgyle nodded. "Castle Black has no godswood," he told them bluntly. "However, you will find a grove of weirwoods half a league from the haunted forest Beyond the Wall." He looked back at all the recruits as Benjen and Liddle sat back down. The First Steward handed him a scroll of paper. "We have placed each of you in an order, as befits our need and your own strengths and skills," said Qorgyle, unrolling it. He glanced at it and began to read. "Bowen, to the stewards. Wallace, to the stewards. Chett, to the stewards. Kegs, to the builders, Duncan, to the rangers. Ser Alliser, to the rangers. Ser Jaremy, to the rangers. Benjen, to the rangers." He rolled up the paper. "Your firsts will instruct you in your duties. May all the gods preserve you, brothers."

* * *

Late in the afternoon, Benjen set out to the forest with the First Ranger, the other rangers and Duncan Liddle, who insisted for them to call him Big Liddle. As they journeyed from Castle Black to the grove of weirwoods, Big Liddle chatted with Benjen, telling him his reasons for joining the Night's Watch. Benjen had been too nervous to dwell on why the heir of Clan Liddle decided to relinquish his rights to his father's lordship and be a black brother.

By the time they reached the grove of white trees, the sun was sinking fast below the trees. Benjen drew his breath sharply as they arrived at a clearing. He saw the nine weirwood trees sit in a rough circle. He had never seen so many white trees growing together before. _Lyanna would convince me to ride with her in the wolfswood_ , he remembered. _There are never this many weirwood trees in the wolfswood. Two or three grouped together perhaps, but never nine_. Benjen dismounted his horse and tied the reins to an ironwood tree before he walked into the circle of weirwoods. "The grove of weirwood trees is a sacred place," the First Ranger had told them before they had exited through the passage doors at Castle Black. "Upon arrival, we will tether our horses. We will not besmirch the sacredness of the weirwood grove with our horses."

The small party walked across the forest floor littered with old fallen leaves, the First Ranger stopping in front of the third weirwood tree. Benjen and Big Liddle knelt, and as the last light faded in the west to give way to the vast dark canvas of the night, they said their words together.

"Hear my words, and bear witness to my vow," Benjen and Duncan Liddle recited, breaking the silence in the soundless wood. "Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honour to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."

"You knelt as boys," the First Ranger said a minute later. "Rise now as men of the Night's Watch."

Benjen rose and found himself surrounded by smiling rangers, all patting him on the shoulder and murmuring words of congratulations. "You have a bright future in front of you," grunted Mormont, nodding at him. "Who knows? Maybe in ten years or so, it will be _you_ as the First Ranger." He chuckled and went off to congratulate Big Liddle. _Finally_ , thought Benjen. _I am a man of the Night's Watch. Now my watch begins._

* * *

Excitement shivered through Benjen's spine as the walls of Winterfell came into view. He urged his horse to trot faster. He wanted nothing more than to see Ned and Ashara. _You are not here as a brother, good-brother or uncle_ , Benjen reminded himself as Yoren rode up to him. _You are here as a man of the Night's Watch and Lord Commander Qorgyle's chosen delegate. You are here to request more men for the Wall._

"Why did old Qorgyle send you here?" said Yoren bluntly. "Most brothers from noble houses don't return home."

Benjen shrugged. "I don't know any more about this than you do. Last week, I was summoned to the Commander's Keep and Qorgyle told me I was to travel to Winterfell with you and request more men. I think it is a type of practice for my first ranging or something. Unorthodox, but still. Do not fear, I won't run off and be a deserter. If I do, you will have to escort me back to Castle Black in chains where Qorgyle will have me executed."

Yoren snorted. "Aye, or Lord Stark will execute you himself."

Benjen shuddered. "I hope my brother will never execute me. Didn't you just return with a few more recruits?"

"Aye. I was then sent to join you. What is Qorgyle playing at? You haven't been manning the Wall for over a year, yet he trusts you enough to send you to your childhood home." Yoren spat. "It all sounds shifty to me."

"It was the Lord Commander's orders. No matter how strange it seems to be, we will obey his command."

"Aye. Did you tell Lord Stark o' our impending arrival?"

"No. I thought I would just show up…"

Yoren chuckled. "Not the brightest idea, eh? Then again, Lord Stark was your brother and writing to him may be difficult for you at the moment. I hope Lord Commander Qorgyle wrote to him at least. Do you think there will still be rooms in that inn in winter town?"

"There will be more rooms available than it would in winter." _Lord Stark was your brother_. Yoren's words echoed in Benjen's head. _We bear the same house name yet we are no longer brothers._

Yoren grunted. "Good. What about a nice pot of hot stew?"

"Perhaps. If we are lucky, maybe even a bit of meat."

Yoren nodded with appreciation. "Aye. A nice hot meal for two passing black brothers, eh? A bit o' meat, a mug o' bear, a slice o' bread. Mmm."

"Here." Benjen threw him an apple. "If you are hungry, eat this. Qorgyle said that while I stay in Winterfell to persuade Lord Stark for more men, you are to go to Torrhen's Square. Hopefully by the time you return, we will both be ready to leave for the Wall with a batch of recruits. Is there a reason why Qorgyle is so determined – or more to the point, obsessed – with the need for more men? You must have went this path so many times already!"

"Meh. Lord Commander's orders. Since I injured my shoulder, I could not fight as well as I used to. Being a wandering crow is better than doing nothing at the Wall. Qorgyle wants men; I find him men."

"So many men?"

"The more men the better! The Night's Watch is no longer a prestigious order young boys dream to join. It's always the Kingsguard, bah. Once it used to be full o' noble men. Now, we rely on criminals. Getting a few willing volunteers is good enough for me and the Lord Commander."

"How many men are you aiming to gather?"

Yoren thought for a moment. "Three? I never expect more than that."

Benjen nodded. "There will always be more southron criminals to take back to the Wall. My bro-Lord Stark and the other Northern lords are of the old way and they prefer to execute their prisoners rather than imprison them."

"Aye. I'll be lucky to get my hands on two here."

The tall Winterfell walls loomed over them as they rode towards the gates. "I will go and find Lord Stark," Benjen told Yoren. "If you are still here by nightfall, I will join you for a spot of supper."

"Aye. I doubt there are many open taverns and inns in winter town. I suppose it will be rather easy for you to find me."

"Mmm. I'll see you tonight." Benjen spurred his tired horse through the gate as Yoren headed to the almost empty winter town. As he rode through the gate and courtyard, he was surprised to see Winterfell so desolate. He jumped down from his horse and led it to the stables. No sign of Hullen.

"Lord Benjen?"

Benjen turned around and sighed as he saw Maester Luwin standing in front of the stables, a folded letter in hand. "You have returned?" The maester's brow creased with concern. "Is something amiss, my lord?"

"It's just Benjen now, maester." Benjen fed his horse a carrot and stepped out from the stables. "I have said my vows," he explained. "I am a sworn brother of the Night's Watch now. Where is Lord Stark? Lord Commander Qorgyle had sent me here to request more men for the Wall. If you do not mind me asking, why are there so less men?"

After recovering from a moment of shock, Maester Luwin replied. "Lord and Lady Stark have already left for King's Landing my lo-Benjen. About three or four weeks ago, I believe. The queen had given birth to a daughter, Princess Lyanna Baratheon, and Lord Stark's presence was required. As his wife, Lady Stark went with him. Lord Stark had left Vayon Poole and myself in charge of affairs here at Winterfell. May I be of any assistance to you, Benjen?"

"How is Robb?" Benjen could not resist inquiring. _Once I could call him my nephew. Now he is the heir of Lord Stark._

The maester smiled. "The young lordling is quite well. He can crawl, babble the language of babes, play with the toys other lords gave him. Lord Robb is one healthy lordling. Will you stay the night?"

"No. I will join Yoren in winter town for supper."

"As you wish. There will always be a room ready for you here – Lord Stark's orders. Would you care for some nourishment? As you eat, we can discuss the number of men you need."

Benjen went with Maester Luwin to the Great Hall. Despite dining with his sworn brothers, high officers and recruits in the common hall at Castle Black for almost a year, he would never forget Winterfell's large Great Hall. Unlike Castle Black's timbered common hall, Winterfell's Great Hall was enclosed with grey stone and exteriorly covered banners, its wide oak-and-iron doors opening to the castle yard, the rear exit leading to a dimly-lit gallery. Inside, it could hold eight long rows of trestle tables and seat around five hundred people. Benjen smiled as he remembered the rare opportunities to sup with his entire family on the raised platform as a child. _At times Father would be too busy_ , Benjen recalled. _Brandon would prefer to dine more with his friends than family; Lyanna would be riding – always riding; and Ned…Ned hardly descended from the Eyrie._

The smell of venison pie made Benjen's mouth water. As he ate, he listened to Maester Luwin's advice. "There are one or two orphaned boys in the kitchens," he said. "Their parents died of a fever as did their farm's livestock. With Lord and Lady Stark's permission, I took them in for a few weeks and they have helped the servants and cooks. Tell them the honour of joining the Night's Watch. Tell them it is a better life for them than kitchen helpers."

 _Is it?_ "I will." Benjen finished the last of his venison pie and stood up. "When will you send another letter to Lord Stark?"

"Shortly."

"If I am not asking too much, can you please tell Lord Stark I am sorry I did not have the pleasure of meeting him, but I thank him for his hospitality, and I hope to see him again one day."

Maester Luwin nodded. "I will add that to the letter. I trust you need no aid to the kitchens, Benjen?"

* * *

Benjen met Yoren at the gates of winter town with the two orphaned boys on horses and bags of fresh supplies. "You would make a fine wandering crow," said Yoren, nodding at the two recruits as he rode up to them with four more young men of his own. "If you get tired of ranging, be a wandering crow."

Within days, they had gathered another volunteer on the way back to Castle Black and as they approached the abandoned village of Queenscrown, Benjen caught sight of a furred figure disappearing in the forests. "Oh! Who is that?"

Yoren glanced. "A wildling," he said dismissively. "They are getting wilder and bolder each day. Soon the day will come when we must take arms against them. Mark my words, Stark. That day will come…soon."

* * *

 **Okay, so there _is_ internet (I'm in China by the way) where I'm currently residing, but it's not the best and there was a bit of trouble searching up ASOIAF stuff. I haven't checked through this chapter as much as I liked, but I hope you enjoyed reading it anyway :) I'm 98% certain this would be the last Benjen/Wall chapter in Part 1 (before the huge time jump). I've set myself a challenge to update all the remaining chapters of Part 1 before New Year's so be sure to look out for a number of updates in the upcoming days :) **


	16. Cersei I

Garbed in an elegant gown of crimson embroidered with golden lions, Cersei Lannister swirled this way and that in front of the mirror. She scowled. _It should be me at the king's side, not that…that trout from Riverrun._

Cersei never enjoyed devouring fish at suppers and feasts; too many bones and there was no joy nibbling it unlike the juiciness and tenderness of roasted beef and other meat. More to the point, she loathed all the Tullys – even before Robert's war. One of her brilliant green eyes twitched. At one stage, her father, the powerful Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport and Warden of the West, had considered wedding her off to that floppy fish Ser Edmure Tully. _I will eat him alive if I am ever forced to marry him_. Thankfully that silly notion left her father's head as speedily as he thought of it.

What she found even more alarming was when she heard her father's plans to wed her beloved Jaime to Lysa Tully. Jaime was _hers_ – only hers. Cersei felt anger surge through her. _Why doesn't anyone understand? Jaime and I were brought to the world together; we are meant to be together…forever_. The thought of having stupid Lysa as a good-sister horrified her as much as the idea of Tyrion gaining favour from their father (though highly unlikely – who would love a dwarf?). _No_ , she corrected herself. _Her_ _father_. Even though that imp of a Lannister bore the Lannister name, she liked to pretend he was not her brother. After her mother died giving birth to that monster, Cersei used to dream she would drop him into the sea from the cliffs of Casterly Rock and her mother would be alive again.

Alas, they were nothing but dreams.

 _I am getting old_ , thought Cersei, frowning as her handmaid braided her tresses of long, blonde hair. Nineteen years; still unmarried and no future. _If I was born with a cock, I would've fought in tourneys and wars – for the glory and honour of House Lannister. My father would be proud of me._

Her foul mood worsened as she headed from her chambers to the Great Hall to hear the king's announcement. No doubt it regarded his precious child. _Father wanted me to be the queen. I was to be Rhaegar's queen. I was to be the mother of dragons. I could've been Robert Baratheon's queen…but Catelyn Tully beat me and stole my crown._ Cersei could not resist another scowl as she remembered her father's reaction to the news of a Tully as queen consort. "That Hoster Tully is a clever trout!" Lord Tywin Lannister had raged. "It's you who's supposed to be the queen! Oh, Tully had won this round; the next he will lose!"

Cersei craned her head and saw her twin standing with his sworn brothers in front of the Iron Throne. Jaime must've seen her glimpse as he winked at her. She blushed before a thought occurred to her. What if he was winking roguishly at another woman? She dismissed it at once. _Jaime would never look at other ladies – he has me, and that is enough for us both._

"Do you see that man over there?" her father appeared at her side. Tall with bushy golden side-whiskers and the most intimidating gaze, he frightened her at times. "Do you see him?" he repeated, his green eyes flecked with gold swivelling to a handsome man in grey and silver. "He is Ser Garth Hightower. He is Leyton's second son. Lord Leyton approached me yesterday and requested your hand for him. He wants us to unite houses." His lips curved into a twisted sneer. "Leyton Hightower is a fool. I offered him Tyrion for one of his daughters and he declined. Now he asks for you, and I had the pleasure of declining. You were meant to be queen, Cersei. There is still a chance."

"What?" Cersei could not believe her ears. "How, Father? Catelyn _Tully_ is the queen. There is nothing we can do about it."

"How pessimistic you have become, Daughter." Lord Tywin lowered his voice to a hushed whisper. "Catelyn Tully birthed a princess."

Cersei covered her mouth to stifle a giggle. She would have given the king a good many sons…if he'd married her as he should've. "What did they name their little princess?" she said softly.

Lord Tywin's smirk broadened. " _Lyanna_."

Cersei choked on her laughter. "I doubt Catelyn Tully will be pleased!" She managed to contain her giggles as the king began to speak.

"My lords and ladies!" King Robert Baratheon announced, his booming voice echoing in the Great Hall. "We are gathered here today to celebrate! My queen had given birth to a daughter, the Princess Lyanna Baratheon!" He paused and the courtiers clapped and murmured words of congratulations. Cersei politely clapped twice. "It had also been decided Princess Lyanna will wed Lord Robb Stark, the heir of Winterfell," continued the king. To Cersei's delight, a whisper of disgruntlement buzzed through court. At the corner of her eye, Cersei saw her father stare straight ahead, his lips tightening. _He would have loved to have the princess a part of the family._ Glancing around, Cersei spotted the Fat Flower of Highgarden pouting and even Stannis Baratheon grinding his teeth. Then again, Stannis Baratheon did nothing but grind his teeth.

"There will be a tourney in honour of my daughter's birth!" the king went on, unaware of the quiet discontentment. "It will begin this afternoon! Additionally, there is more to celebrate. It has come to my attention that in the future, the Iron Throne may need more gold, and where better to find it than in Casterly Rock?" He nodded at Cersei and Tywin. "Moreover, as a gesture of friendship between the Houses of Baratheon and Lannister, we will unite our houses." _How?_ Cersei wondered. _You have already betrothed your dear, little princess – and only child – to the pup of Winterfell._

"…and with the full consent and blessing from Lord Tywin Lannister, I am pleased and honoured to announce the betrothal between my beloved brother Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and Lord Protector of Dragonstone, and Lady Cersei of House Lannister!"

* * *

"I could not help but wonder why Stannis Baratheon was grinding his teeth this morning." Jaime shook his mane of golden hair as he removed his silver helmet. Cersei wanted nothing more than to kiss him right there. He wiped away the beads of sweat from his forehead. "I guess we both know why now," he said, giving her a meaningful look.

"I assure you I did not want it!" snapped Cersei, crossing her arms. "Why in the Seven would I want to marry a statue like Stannis Baratheon?"

Jaime shrugged carelessly. "To be queen? Like it or not, Stannis Baratheon _is_ still King Robert's heir. As long as our beloved Queen Catelyn cannot bear Robert a son, Stannis is his heir."

In her rage, Cersei had not considered that. "Robert has a daughter," Cersei pointed out helplessly.

Jaime shrugged again, wiping his hands. "Complain about it to Father. I have no head nor care for politics. Did you see that knight fall? Utterly hopeless. I do wonder if there will be any competition for me these days. I must say, I found the tourney of the king and queen's wedding much more challenging than this one so far. I hope I will compete against Barristan the Bold or the Blackfish in the last tilt. That will be memorable, wouldn't it?"

"I suppose," Cersei said, busy in her own thoughts.

Her twin frowned. "Are you still dwelling in a pit of misery, dear sister? Enjoy the tourney! It will be your last bit of fun before you are sent packing and then shipped off to Storm's End where you will wed Stannis Baratheon."

Cersei sighed. "I'll kill him if he forces his way with me on our wedding night." She wondered if Stannis had ever fucked a woman before.

"At least you will return to court. I will see you again."

"It wouldn't be the same, would it?" She leant forward and kissed Jaime on the lips. "Remember all those times when you stole a kiss from me at Casterly Rock?" she cooed as they broke apart. "Do you remember the night when you agreed to be a knight of the Kingsguard?" She smiled coyly. She did not need to touch him to know he was already deeply aroused. Her long, slim fingers caressed his fair cheeks, and when she wiped away a droplet or two of sweat, she licked it clean from her finger, gazing intently in Jaime's eyes. "What about the time when we fucked near the lion's pit?"Cersei whispered in his ear. "You said…what did you say? It was the best fuck ever…"

"Not…not now," said Jaime, his voice husky. "L-l-later. I…I have to ready m-m-myself for the next round…"

Cersei laughed softly. "The next round wouldn't start for _ages_. Don't you want to carry my favour, sweet Jaime?" She blew into his ear.

Nothing more had to be said.

* * *

Lord Tywin gave Cersei one look as she hurriedly joined him in the stands to watch the jousting. Thankfully Jaime did not make it messy or rip her gown this time. She fixed her hair and smiled dazzlingly at her father. "I was only wishing my brother luck," she said sweetly.

Her father nodded. "You will sit with the royal family – more precisely, beside Lord Stannis – during tonight's feast," he informed her. "It was an order directly from the king himself. Lord Stannis may not care much for you, but the king said he will not stand for a woman like Stannis in his family. You are to converse with Lord Stannis, entice him and try and make him smile. I suspect King Robert will declare a wager: the first to make Stannis Baratheon laugh will find himself – or herself – in possession of a lordship of some kind. I do not know if our good king is serious, but for House Lannister's interests, make him laugh. Amuse him. You have been at court for quite some time. I hope you spent your time here wisely with knowledge how to interest a man like Stannis Baratheon."

 _There should be a wager to make_ you _laugh_. "What are the chances Jaime will win the joust this time?"

Lord Tywin shrugged. "I do not care. Of course I hope Jaime wins. However, if Ser Barristan or the Blackfish happen to maim him, it will give him good reason to leave the Kingsguard and be my heir again."

Cersei wanted nothing more than to glare at him. _You will not take Jaime away from me_ , she wanted to shout. _Jaime belongs to me! You already took him away from me once – was that not enough?_

"Once Jaime is released from his Kingsguard vows, he will be wedded to a lady from a highborn and influential family and finally have heirs. I will die a content man when I see my Lannister descendants married off to suitable spouses and House Lannister's legacy secure. A pity Hoster Tully married Lysa off to old Jon Arryn. Jaime's marriage to Lysa would be quite beneficial."

Cersei refrained herself from rolling her eyes. Instead, she turned to look at the jousting field. Barristan the Bold had effortlessly knocked another weasel-faced Frey from his equally weaselly horse. _How many Freys had Ser Barristan defeated?_ Cersei wondered. _Three? Four? The Freys breed like rabbits._

"I have not seen a single Frey progress far," remarked her father. "Not even your aunt Genna's son, Cleos. Jaime knocked him from his horse after he had defeated Tyrell's good-brother, one of those green apple Fossoways. Have you heard? Our queen gave the Blackfish her favour."

Cersei shrugged. "She is his niece."

"Indeed. I see you had given Jaime your favour too."

She smiled. Fluttering from Jaime's tourney lance was her red ribbon; a little frayed at the edges, it was the same ribbon that had weaved through her locks of golden hair the first time she consummated her love with Jaime. It took Jaime a mere second to recognise it. "I will crown you my Queen of Love and Beauty," he had promised, kissing her hand like a valiant knight. "As I have no betrothed nor a wife, crowning you will not be scandalous. There is nothing wrong in a brother crowning his own sister his Queen of Love and Beauty."

"I cannot wait," she had answered, smiling back at him. Wearing a crown of white roses on her brow was not what she had hoped at the prospect of being queen, but it was safer than committing treason to steal a crown.

"He is facing a Tyrell this time," Cersei commented.

"Most likely one of Mace Tyrell's cousins," agreed Lord Tywin. His green eyes gleamed like specks of gold. "Lord Stannis is coming our way," he said quietly. "I expect you to be charming."

Gloomily, Cersei waited as the grim-faced Stannis Baratheon made his way to her side. "Lord Lannister," he greeted, nodding at her father. "My lady." He gave her a polite nod. They watched Jaime unhorse the Tyrell knight with ease. "His Grace instructed me to ask you to sit with me, him, Her Grace and Lord Tully for the duration of the tourney," Stannis said solemnly. "I must also request you to sit by my side at tonight's feast as my betrothed."

"As you wish, my lord." Cersei smiled alluringly at him. "It will be an honour to sit with you and your family."

"It will be our family soon," said Stannis automatically. "Once all the details of the union of Houses Baratheon and Lannister are formalised, we will leave King's Landing for Storm's End and wed."

"We cannot wed here, my lord?" Hopefully negotiations would last more than a year. "You are His Grace's brother!"

Stannis frowned at her. "All Lords of Storm's End wed in Storm's End," he said bluntly, "as my father married my mother before me, and his father and mother before him…since Orys Baratheon took Argella Durrandon as wife. Before the end of the year, we will wed in my ancestral home and you will be the Lady of Storm's End. The king is more than pleased about it. He too desires to visit his childhood home. Or so he claims."

"Very well, my lord." Cersei could not suppress her utter disappointment. Why could she not be wedded off to a more handsome man who is not blind to a lady's charms? How in the Seven would she twist him around her little finger as she did to Jaime? Stannis Baratheon was a man of iron; Cersei suspected he would break before bending to her – or anyone's – will.

Her future husband nodded. "Very good, my lady." He offered her his arm almost mechanically. "I am to escort you to the royal stands." Helplessly, Cersei took his arm and he all but dragged her to the more comfortable gallery housing the king and his family. She repressed an upcoming scowl as she caught sight of the smug trout sitting at the king's side. _She does not look the part of queen_ , thought Cersei, as she murmured, "Your Grace," before seating herself down on a velvet-cushioned chair beside the trout herself. _She does look appealing enough,_ Cersei grudgingly acknowledged, _but a queen must appear beautiful._ _She would be better off Stannis's wife and I King Robert's_. The thought of a stag wedded to a trout irked her; would not a stag and lion be a better match?

"Lady Cersei," said the trout of Riverrun warmly. "How good of Stannis to ask you to sit with us. It will be thrilling when you wed him, will it not? I will finally have the pleasure of calling you my sister."

The last thing Cersei wanted was a sister – through marriage or otherwise. "It will be exciting," she lied, forcing herself to smile. "I thank the king and my lord father for brokering me such a grand match." It _was_ an impressive match. Next to the king, Stannis Baratheon was the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms. Furthermore, without a royal prince in the nursery, Stannis was the heir to the Iron Throne. If Catelyn Tully happened to die giving birth to a weakling prince or another daughter, with the king following her to the grave, Stannis would ascend as king…with her as queen.

"You look lovely, Lady Cersei," Catelyn Tully complimented, her bright blue eyes scrutinising Cersei's elaborate braids down to her red gown. "I'm certain you will look equally splendid in gold and black."

"You look utterly magnificent, Your Grace." Magnificent for a knight's wife. _Where does she think she is? Riverrun?_ Her hairstyle did not suit a queen. Cersei had seen many ladies who looked finer than Queen Catelyn. She smiled as the queen blushed a little. For the remainder of afternoon, Cersei and Catelyn spoke a few words and watched the rounds of jousting.

"Ser Jaime is one of the finest swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms," Catelyn observed, as Jaime broke his third lance against Garth Hightower. "I'm honoured to have him guard my lord husband. Today Ser Jaime had defeated two Swanns; father and son I believe, both of whom were excellent jousters. It is a pity Lord Hightower is keen for Ser Garth to wed. They call him Garth Greysteel. He would make an excellent addition to the Kingsguard. The king need young, strong men around him – with the exception of Ser Barristan Selmy of course. Ser Barristan can still kill a dozen men half his age."

Cersei nodded. "No one can win against my brother."

Catelyn laughed. "What of Ser Barristan and my uncle, the Blackfish? They are both very skilled in the jousting field."

 _Jaime will cut those old men down as if he was cutting butter._ Cersei beamed as Garth Greysteel fell. In the next round, her smile disappeared as after five broken lances, Ser Balon Swann knocked Jaime from his steed.

"I suppose it is fitting," said Catelyn, watching Jaime stagger up, his armour and cloak coated with dirt and dust. "Ser Jaime defeated Lord Gulian Swann of Stonehelm and his heir, Ser Donnel Swann. For the honour of his father and elder brother, Ser Balon won against Ser Jaime. Oh dear me, half the spectators are quite unhappy. They must have wagered against Ser Balon."

* * *

The feast was splendid; the dishes were delicious, the music beautiful…Cersei would've thought it perfect if she was not seated beside her sullen betrothed. She tried to talk to Stannis, but his replies were short and cold. By the Seven, Stannis Baratheon was an icier man than Eddard Stark!

 _Father held a tourney in Lannisport once_ , Cersei remembered. _I was a girl of ten and Aunt Genna told me I was to be betrothed to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen._ The champion of the tourney was Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, yet Rhaegar defeated two of her uncles, twelve of her father's best knights _and_ Ser Barristan Selmy, before falling to the Sword of the Morning. That night, the prince played the harp; it was one of the few occasions Cersei cried. The next was when the Mad King rejected the suggestion of betrothing Rhaegar to Cersei. After that, there was no celebratory feast.

"You are my most able servant, Tywin, but a man does not marry his heir to his servant's daughter," the Mad King had said to her father. Tywin had repeated it to Cersei, and she had never forgotten it. She was glad Jaime slew the Mad King and when Robert Baratheon killed Rhaegar Targaryen at the Trident, she wept, not certain if with joy or grief.

Cersei reached for another cup of wine. Was it her third…? Fourth…? As she sipped, she noticed Stannis's disapproving stare. "It is not proper for a highborn lady to drink so much wine," he said stiffly. _Not proper?_ Cersei forced herself to remain calm. There's no point angering her betrothed. "I apologise if I offend you in any way my lord," she said civilly. "I am only…nervous."

"Nervous, my lady?" She looked up and saw a grinning Jaime stand in front of her, holding out his hand. "I will be honoured if you will dance with me." He gave her a charismatic smile before turning to Stannis. "My lord Stannis." He dipped his head. "You do not mind if I steal your betrothed for a dance?" Stannis waved his hand dismissively. Beaming, Cersei took Jaime's hand and they walked to the dance floor. "I thought you needed a rescue," whispered Jaime.

"There goes the Lannister twins," a lady in blue said to her friend. "The Lion of Lannister's golden legacies: the Kingslayer and the future Lady of Storm's End." Cersei lifted her head with pride _. Even after Stannis places his Baratheon cloak over my shoulders, I will always be a Lannister,_ she vowed as Jaime's long fingers brushed against her waist. _My future husband is a Baratheon, my future sons and daughters will be Baratheons, but I will forever be a Lannister._

* * *

 **I planned to update yesterday, but I got distracted writing the next chapter and forgot. Sorry! On the bright side, I'll update the next chapter this evening :) Merry Christmas readers! I appreciate every review, favourite and follow and this is my Christmas gift to you all! :D**


	17. Eddard VII

He named her Lyanna.

Robert named her Lyanna.

Ned wanted naught more than to disappear from the staring eyes of the lords and ladies. _Why Robert? What in the old gods and new could've possibly_ possessed _you to name your firstborn daughter_ _after your former betrothed…and the lady you launched a war over_. Everywhere Ned looked and turned, he felt accusing Tully eyes bore deeply into him like the carved eyes of Winterfell's heart tree. If it was not Queen Catelyn's usually warm blue eyes glowering at him, it would be Hoster Tully's icy blue ones…or the Blackfish's…or Ser Edmure Tully's.

After his second cup of ale, Ned stood up. The celebratory feast was at its peak and Ned went to seek out his former foster father. Unfortunately, Jon Arryn was engrossed in a serious discussion of sorts with the Lord of Riverrun. "Lord Tully," said Jon, catching a glimpse of Ned lingering tentatively in front of him, "may we continue this conversation at a later time? I cannot help but notice that ah, your daughter seems lonely. Perhaps a dance will remedy it?"

Hoster nodded. "As you wish, my Lord Hand." He gave Ned a cool nod before making his way to Catelyn's side. Jon gestured for Ned to sit. "I believe you want a word with me, Ned?"

Ned sat down and nodded. "Aye. It is about…Robert."

The old Lord of the Eyrie glanced around cautiously before he said quietly. "I see. What is troubling you about our king?"

"Robert…Robert named her Lyanna. He named his daughter with _Catelyn Tully_ Lyanna. Why on earth would he do that? I know Robert can be rash at times, but surely even he was aware of the trouble it would cause!" Ned took a deep breath as he ranted on. "If that wasn't bad enough, he betrothed Lyanna-" it still pained him to say his late sister's name "-to my Robb without even a word of warning! I had no say in the matter!"

Jon looked around warily once more. "Robert was foolish," he admitted softly, his once blue eyes now cloudy with worry. "For the good of the realm, I spent a good part of the day placating Lord Tully. I told him Robert was drunk when he named his daughter after uh, your late sister. I assured him the queen was kind enough to agree willingly to it, but I doubt he believed me. However, Lord Tully seemed to accept it reluctantly enough…on the few conditions – well, those were between him and me." He chuckled a little before he eyed at Ned gravely. "As our king, Robert has honoured you as his greatest friend through betrothing his _only child_ – currently – to your heir."

"I am aware of that-"

"No. You are thinking recklessly. Where is the Ned I know? The Ned who does not rush into matters without weighing out the advantages and hindrances and even the possibly outcome?"

Jon always talks sense to me. He was right. Ned had been too shocked to even think about the benefits of the royal match. Even he, Ned, had to concede it was a tremendous honour for his House. He remembered from his history books and scrolls of the Pact of Ice and Fire, made between his ancestor Lord Cregan Stark and Prince Jacaerys Velaryon on behalf of his Targaryen mother Rhaenyra during the bloody Dance of the Dragons. One of the conditions for Stark support was for a royal princess to wed into House Stark. The marriage never materialised. Now was an opportunity for another princess, one equally royal though bearing the name Baratheon, to be married into House Stark. Knowing Robert, he would be determined for the marriage to proceed once both the infant princess and little Robb are of marriageable age.

"Aye," said Ned slowly. "It is more than a good match. It is a grand match for House Stark. I doubt the Northern lords will complain about it. With such a close connection to the king…"

Jon nodded with a faint knowing smile. "He always considered you a brother; you will be related to him through marriage in a matter of time. I doubt Robert was aware of the political security the Stark-Baratheon betrothal brought, but I quite approve of it. It was one of the cleverest moves Robert made – even though he did not know of it."

"Oh?"

"You are an honest man Ned, and one of honour. Who would be king if Robert would die young and without a son?"

Ned said instantly. "Stannis would be king."

"Aye. Stannis is a just man and an experienced warrior, but not every great lord will want a king like him. Stannis is one who remembers one's enemy – he'll never forget the siege at Storm's End…and the Tyrells are aware of it. Imagine the years of war and bloodshed if the princess is betrothed to a _Tyrell_." Jon Arryn shuddered. "The Tyrells thirst for power…"

"And what better way than through a child queen."

"Aye. With the princess betrothed to a Stark, both she and Stannis are safe and the possibility of a civil war subdued."

"I thought the Lannisters are the most dangerous. Apparently the golden roses of Highgarden are more deadly."

"As are all the Great Houses. Some may say _you_ are their greatest threat as the king's closest friend. Do you plan to wed your future children to Northern lords as your predecessors did or to southron lords?"

"I will wed them to lords best suited for the North. Perhaps it will be to a few southron lords, maybe to a Northern lord or lady."

Jon nodded. "Is Lady Stark well?"

"Ashara is in blooming health. I count myself quite fortunate to have wedded such a lovely woman. It was all thanks to you of course. I'll be more than content if Ashara bears me a litter of daughters – she had already given me one fine son. Robb will not be raised in a coddling environment, mind you. My natural son Jon already shares a nursery with him. Ere long before they begin their lessons. I also plan to bring in a ward or two, mostly likely sons of my bannermen. How is your lady wife, Jon? I hear she is now in the Eyrie."

"The right place for her, Ned. I will not lie, our marriage is loveless. I try to be affectionate to Lysa, but she hates me. I don't blame her." He sighed. "I am an old man – old enough to be her grandfather. Here at court…it is no place for a sweet daughter of Riverrun. Lysa will be happier in the Eyrie. I hope she will love the Eyrie as much as we do. I need an heir, Ned. You are fortunate your lady wife had begotten you a son with ease. Lysa…"

"I heard she had two miscarriages. My condolences."

"My first wife Jeyne, died giving birth to a stillborn daughter. A miscarriage or two still brings me hope Lysa can bring to term a child. Even if she gives me one and it is a daughter, I will be content."

"Not many lords will be pleased with a single daughter, Jon. Randyll Tarly has a son and daughter and his wife is with child again. We can both guess Lord Tarly desires another son. If he had the fertileness of House Frey…no one in their right mind would want to cross him."

Jon laughed. "Indeed. I won't be surprised if Lord Tarly dreams to be general of his own army…an army of his sons and descendants."

Ned shuddered.

"My lords." Ashara appeared in front of him and Jon. "My apologies if I have disturbed your discussion. My lord Arryn, may I take my husband for a dance or two? All Lord Redwyne would speak about was wine and his mother, oh and his vessels. I grew terribly bored." She smiled at Jon.

"Of course Lady Stark." Jon nodded and smiled back at her. He looked at Ned and said, "I suppose we shall speak again soon? I will not keep you detained here from your sweet wife." Ned nodded and rose. Taking Ashara's hand, they went to the dance floor a mere second before the band of minstrels struck the first note of the next song.

" _Sweet?_ " Ashara hissed in Ned's ear as he spun her around. "What in the name of the Seven have you told Lord Arryn about me?"

"Nothing…much?"

Ashara rolled her eyes. "A likely story, Ned. Look over there." She discreetly nodded at the Blackfish dancing with a beautiful woman. "Do you see her? She is Lady Bethany Rowan…formerly Lady Bethany _Redwyne_. Is she not comely and fair? She was to wed the Blackfish once, or so I've heard." She hissed with pain as Ned accidently stepped on her foot in his haste to glimpse the lady the Blackfish had rejected about twenty six years ago. Ashara was right. Lady Bethany Rowan was a beautiful woman. Even after birthing three children, Ned noticed she had maintained a rosy blush of youth in her ivory cheeks. "She is indeed an attractive lady," Ned agreed, careful not to step on Ashara's foot again.

"She is the Queen of Thorns' cousin," Ashara informed him. "Bethany's father is Olenna Tyrell's uncle. It would've been an excellent match for Ser Brynden if he had accepted it."

"Indeed. I wonder why our tourney champion chose to dance with her."

"Perhaps he finally found her desirable now that both he and Bethany can no longer wed each other? I must say, how did you know Barristan the Bold would lose against Ser Brynden? I'm glad you advised me to wager _against_ Barristan; all thanks to you, I am now a little over a hundred dragons richer after winning that wager…against the king. I truly thought we would be celebrating Ser Barristan's victory tonight! The queen must be delighted in her uncle's grand victory. Was it not charming when the Blackfish crowned Catelyn his Queen of Love and Beauty with a wreath of roses as black as obsidian. No one can doubt his affection for his dear niece now!" She laughed. "Not that there were any doubt before!"

"Where did the Blackfish find black roses? I heard they're even rarer than blue winter roses. I didn't think he had the time to go around picking black roses from who knows where."

Ashara shrugged. "It was quite a pretty wreath."

"Aye…did you see a toy dragon in the nursery before we left?"

She looked at him, astonished at the change of subject. She frowned slightly as she spun around again. "Yes," she said, puzzled. "I was too preoccupied to think much of it back then, but now…"

Ned nodded. "Something strange is afoot," he agreed. "Who else could possibly know about Daenerys? All the servants are loyal to Winterfell and if they caught a scent of her true heritage, they would not have uttered a word, except perhaps to warn me of the danger of harbouring a…certain person out of the goodness of their hearts. Who would send a stuffed dragon?"

"Did you examine it?"

"A little before we set out for King's Landing. It was made from fine materials and onyxes were sewn into it as eyes. Someone rich must have given it – or more like smuggled it – to Daenerys. I suspect it is Varys."

"Why would _Varys_ be interested in Dany's welfare? What if the dragon _wasn't_ sent for Daenerys, but for _Jon?_ "

Ned had not considered that. The last thing he wanted to think of was Jon and his Targaryen blood. "No one knows."

"Except you…and me."

"And Howland Reed."

"I doubt your crannogman friend would blab about a matter like this."

"Indeed. Howland always knew how to keep a secret. I wish he would visit us at Winterfell more often, but these days he hardly ventures out from Greywater Watch at all…according to riders and the rare crannogmen I speak to. There must be an explanation for all this, but I trust Howland and believe he will visit when he is ready. What do you think we should do about the dragon? I hope the other servants have not noticed it yet."

"We need to tell Daenerys and Jon of their ancestry one day."

"Yes, but when they are children? As long as Robert Baratheon is king on the Iron Throne, the Seven Kingdoms will continue singing the horrors of the reigns of the Targaryen kings. They will cry out the abomination of incest and the Mad King will remain in everyone's mind. Jon and Daenerys will be ashamed of their heritage and will hate themselves. No, we will not tell them until they are able to understand the world is a cruel place."

"Will they ever be ready to hear the truth?"

"They have to know one day and I will decide when. Believe me Ashara, I have no desire to break their hearts."

Ashara nodded as the dance ended. "Hearts will break eventually." Before Ned could respond, the Kingslayer and his twin Cersei appeared in front of them, both flushed, no doubt from hours of dancing.

"Lord Stark," acknowledged the Kingslayer, a smirk lingering on his lips. "May I have your permission to dance with the lovely Lady Stark?"

 _No_. "Of course," answered Ned, his strained smile vanishing as he watched Ser Jaime kiss Ashara's hand. "Lady Cersei, may I have this dance?" He didn't want to dance a minute longer than needed but with Cersei Lannister standing in front of him, it would be rude if he did not ask her to dance.

"I will be honoured." Cersei smiled a little and took his hand.

"My congratulations on your betrothal to Lord Stannis," said Ned, spinning her around as the musician began the next song. "You must be…excited. It is said that your wedding will be one of the grandest in the history of weddings – next to the king and queen's of course."

Cersei laughed lightly with a hint of…sarcasm? "My father will not spare any expenses for my wedding," she replied. "I am his sole daughter after all, and Lord Stannis is the king's brother. A grand wedding is expected, Lord Stark. Will you and Lady Stark attend?"

"Of course. It is expected of us. It will be held at Storm's End, my lady?"

"Yes, Lord Stark. My lord betrothed is a man of traditions and he insisted for it

to be at Storm's End rather than here. I would prefer if we wed at Casterly Rock, but of course that is out of the question."

"I'm certain you will look beautiful, Lady Cersei."

"Thank you Lord Stark. Lady Stark looks lovely tonight."

Ned nodded thanks. "As do you my lady." Luckily it was a short dance. Once it ended, he dipped his head and escaped back to his seat as Ashara exchanged Ser Jaime as a dance partner for the bumbling Mace Tyrell. Ned sipped a cup of light wine, his gaze settling upon Queen Catelyn. She seemed content. _I hope she will not think me responsible for her daughter's name_. As if sensing his stare, Catelyn looked at him and motioned for him to join her.

"Your Grace." Ned stood hesitantly before her until she gestured for him to sit in her father's empty chair. His uncertainty doubled as Catelyn gave him a warm smile and asked a servant to pour him a goblet of ale. "I think you will appreciate a cup of ale more than wine," said Catelyn kindly.

"I do, Your Grace." Ned pretended to drink as she watched. _Does Catelyn Tully have enough strength to poison me? Why would she anyway?_ Ned put the cup back down. "You wish to speak to me, Your Grace?"

"Why else would I summon you, Lord Stark? I have noticed my father's rather hostile glares at you. My uncle the Blackfish and my brother Ser Edmure had also both followed his lead, which is odd, as my uncle dislikes taking orders from my father – unless it was on the battlefield. It may sound strange to you Lord Stark, but I do not bear a grudge of any sort against you…even though the entire world may think I do due to my daughter's name. I doubt you will surprised if I tell you Robert chose it and would not change it no matter how hard I plead or cry. It was in my best interest to agree with his choice."

"That was honourable of you, Your Grace."

"It wasn't honour, Lord Stark. It was _duty_. Besides, Lyanna is a lovely name – Northern too. Giving my daughter a Northern name will reinforce our alliance, do you not agree Lord Stark?"

"I am most honoured the king chose to honour my sister by giving your eldest daughter her name. I am very grateful." That was what Robert Baratheon would want to hear. Anything but that, he would dismiss with a scornful snort. It would have been a wiser decision to give his children Baratheon names. Ned had been so certain Robert would name his daughter Cassana…"I realise your father has a number of good reasons why to declare me his enemy Your Grace," ventured Ned quietly. "It was natural for him to think I was responsible for naming his infant granddaughter as my late-"

Catelyn shook her head. "Please, Lord Stark. Do not dwell on the matter of my daughter's name. My daughter is Princess Lyanna Baratheon and she will retain that name till her death."

"My apologies, Your Grace."

"Be wary of my father, Lord Stark. He will believe the naming problem a smear against House Tully's honour until he is satisfied or placated. I often thought him as honourable as you and Lord Arryn, but after I married…I learnt he was not as honourable as I believed."

"Lord Tully is an honourable man, Your Grace."

Catelyn smiled. "That is very kind of you to say Lord Stark." She adjusted her wreath of black roses on her head before clapping politely as the dance ended. "I see Lady Stark has returned to her seat," she remarked. "She may be wondering where you have gone. You should return to her. Forgive me Lord Stark, but I feel a little tired. If Robert inquires where I am, tell him I have retired."

Ned nodded. "As you wish, Your Grace." He dipped his head and retreated to his old seat as Catelyn gracefully rose and left.

"What did the queen want with you?" asked Ashara curiously.

"Nothing much," said Ned distractedly. Before Ashara could question him any further, Ser Barristan approached and asked Ashara to dance. Ned had never felt any happier than to be left to his thoughts.

* * *

After the council session ended, Ned left for the Red Keep's godswood. It was not as comforting as Winterfell's, but a godswood was better than no godswood. With absolutely no interest in remaining in the south for long durations, Ned had resigned the position of Master of Laws fully to an astonished Hoster Tully.

 _The Lord of Riverrun does not know my intentions at all_ , thought Ned, staring at the great oak heart tree. _I have no desire to be part of the small council as the Master of Laws or serve as a mere advisor. Lord Tully is more than welcome to be the Master of Laws until he is weary of it or longs to return home_. Speaking of home, Ned grew concerned at the virtually unoccupied Winterfell. The little ones were still there under the care of Maester Luwin and faithful servants, but what if a Northern lord was to attack? A Northern lord from a House with a history of rebelling against Stark liege lords? A Northern lord like the Leech Lord himself, the icy Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort.

The more Ned thought about it, the more he feared for Winterfell. Lord Roose had been loyal till now – one of his most trusted generals in fact. However, his wife was a Ryswell…and Lady Dustin's sister. With Ryswell and Dustin support, Roose had the time and men to besiege Winterfell. House Bolton's reputation of flaying men did not help Ned's worry. How long will Maester Luwin and his men hold out against Roose with that in their minds?

The Boltons must be tied to House Stark closer than ever. As Ned stared at the swaying leaves, an idea occurred to him. He hurried to his chambers and grabbed a quill and parchment. _Lord Bolton_ , he began to write. _For the good of the North and your loyal services to House Stark during Robert's rebellion, I wish to foster your son Domeric at Winterfell…_

* * *

 **Here is the next chapter as I promised in the last author's note :) Just letting you know now that the next chapter will be in 286 AC. Do any of you know any good Stark names (apart from the names of Ned's children in the books)? I would usually snoop at historical Starks on the .org site, but lately it's been very dodgy...**


	18. Luwin I

Ravens flew through and out the rookery windows under the watchful eye of the patient Maester Luwin. A flurry of letters had been exchanged between Lord Eddard, Lord Bolton, Lord Royce and himself regarding fostering.

The fostering of the heir of the Dreadfort and the third son of Lord Royce had been finalised a few days ago and today was the day they were to arrive. Luwin was more concerned for young Waymar Royce than Domeric Bolton. The Bolton boy was of the North whilst Waymar had lived in the Vale all his life. He hoped Waymar would settle in Winterfell without much trouble. _My duty is to care for the boys, not cosset them_. He'd never coddled anyone nor had he been coddled before. Since he was a child, Luwin was destined for the Citadel – the fate of third son who was the lover of learning.

Luwin descended down the stairs of the rookery tower and headed to the cold courtyard to await the arrival of Lord and Lady Stark's wards. The maester did not have to wait for long.

First to arrive was a party of three, one bearing the grim Bolton standard – a red flayed man on a field of pink with red blood drops. The boy next to him must be young Domeric Bolton himself. Already five years old, the boy was tall for his age and had a solemn expression. The three of them rode up to Luwin, Domeric dismounting gracefully.

"Maester Luwin?" questioned the third man. Luwin nodded.

The man looked relieved. "Good. My lord Bolton does not like us to tarry, so I hope you understand why we cannot stay here for long." He handed Luwin a roll of parchment. "This is from Lord Bolton. He expects to hear a fortnightly report about his son's progress, Maester."

"Very well." Luwin dipped his head as he saw Domeric gaze up at him. "Lord Domeric. Was your journey eventful?"

"No, Maester," Domeric responded softly.

"On my lord's orders, I am to return here in a few months' time and to report my own opinion of Lord Domeric's progress," the third man spoke again. "Lord Bolton entrusts this task to me as I have known Lord Domeric since he was in the cradle. I thought it would be best to inform you of it now."

Luwin nodded slowly. From what he gathered, Lord Bolton was a silent man

who viewed everything and everyone suspiciously, and quite right so. "I will tell Lord Stark of your future visits," he said to him.

"Thank you. That will be greatly appreciated."

"Would you like to refresh yourselves before you return to the Dreadfort? You will return more speedily once revitalised."

"A kind offer, Maester, but a refill for our waterskins will be good. Our orders were to return to the Dreadfort once Lord Domeric is in your care at Winterfell." He paused for a moment. "A loaf of bread would be nice," he added sheepishly. "I am afraid we are low on travel rations." _Lord Roose Bolton does not like to equip his men with a decent amount of supplies? Hmmm…I am not surprised._

"Come." Luwin beckoned for them all to follow him into the Great Hall. "As a maester, I insist for you to be well-nourished before you return to the Dreadfort. Lord Domeric, I will have a servant show you your chambers. Lord Eddard Stark had decided for you to share rooms with Lord Waymar Royce, a son of the Lord of the Runestone, and eventually his own sons, Lord Robb and Jon Snow when they are older. I trust it will not be a problem, Lord Domeric?"

The heir of the Dreadfort shook his head. "No Maester. I am eager for the day to spar against Lord Robb Stark."

A shiver ran down Maester Luwin's spine. Did Lord Bolton beat hatred against the Starks into his son already? "Lord Robb is still a little boy," he said carefully, scrutinising Domeric Bolton carefully. "Only two, as a matter of fact. You will first learn swordplay with Lord Waymar. Perhaps one day when you, Lord Waymar, Lord Robb and Jon Snow reach manhood, you will have a chance to spar against Lord Robb…under supervision of course."

Domeric nodded expressionlessly. _Mayhaps he is tired?_ "Am I allowed to ride here?" he asked. "My aunt gave me a pony as a gift for my latest name day; it was a pony from Grandfather Rodrik's herd. Grandfather promised to show me all his horses when I am a little older."

"Of course you may ride your pony. Not today though, you must be tired, Lord Domeric. Ah, here is Desmond. He will show you your chambers and a hot meal will be prepared for you. Will you sup with us or alone?"

Young Domeric stared at him, his eyes pale. "I would like to sup alone, Maester Luwin," he said softly. "Perhaps when Lord Waymar arrives, I will dine with him if he finds it agreeable." His eyes flittered around the vast Great Hall. "Winterfell is everything my father described," he commented. "I am honoured to be one of Lord Stark's wards. My father always held him in high regard."

 _As a loyal bannerman should_. "I will have someone send your meal to you in a few minutes," Luwin said, pushing a flagon of ale and a plate of meat towards the two others. "If there is anything you desire to know, please do not hesitate to ask, Lord Domeric." He smiled encouragingly at the solemn lordling.

"Thank you Maester," Domeric Bolton responded. "I'm certain when my mind is troubled with questions, I will turn to you for answers."

* * *

Maester Luwin could not fathom at the possible reasons why Waymar Royce could be late. An hour or two was acceptable, but three days? By the third, Luwin had no excuses to tell Domeric. Luwin was more than happy to begin Domeric's lessons on history, but he could not help but wonder at Waymar's lateness. Could the honourable Lord Yohn Royce changed his mind at the very last minute and decided to foster his son elsewhere? Luwin doubted it.

Before the sun could sink down on the third day, Ser Rodrik alerted him to the sighting of an approaching cavalcade. The gates were thrown open and Maester Luwin waited patiently at the courtyard for the cavalcade to enter. A dozen men on horses rode in, all bearing the sigil of House Royce. At the head of the orderly procession was a tall man with slate-grey eyes and very bushy eyebrows garbed in bronze armour inscribed with an assortment of runes and a cloak the colour of bronze clasped around his shoulders by a bronze brooch moulded into the shape of another rune. There was no doubt that man was Bronze Yohn Royce, Lord of Runestone and Lord Waymar's father.

Atop the pony beside him was a lad of six of slender build and grey eyes and a slight pout on his lips. He donned a furred cloak – too hot for a spring evening at Winterfell – of the finest materials and was in a suit of armour similar to the Lord of Runestone's except obviously smaller.

"You must be Maester Luwin!" Lord Royce's voice boomed across Winterfell's courtyard as he dismounted his horse and walked up to him. _Did he bring all his retainers and soldiers here?_ Luwin could not help but wonder. _Lord Bolton sent his only son to Winterfell under the protection of an old soldier and his standard bearer; Lord Royce had accompanied his third son to Winterfell with a heavily armed escort as if he was heading to war, not bidding his son goodbye at his new home_. Then again, Domeric was of the North. Luwin smiled at Waymar Royce as he climbed down his pony.

"Lord Royce." Luwin dipped his head to Bronze Yohn. "Lord Waymar."

"Maester," Waymar acknowledged with an air of arrogance. _Oh dear_ , thought Luwin. _Lady Stark will not be pleased at him already_. If the gods were good, he might be able to change Waymar Royce's attitude given time.

'Forgive our lateness, Maester!" Lord Royce boomed again. "It was all my fault! I attended Lyanna Baratheon's first name day tourney was injured in my last tilt against the Blackfish! Again! It was the second year running that the Blackfish won the tourney – and his great niece's name day tourneys too! By the time my party rode up to meet my son's, we were already a day late!"

"Will you stay at Winterfell for a day or two, Lord Royce?"

"We need a respite and I wish to see my son settle at his new home before we return to Runestone."

"Very well. I will have chambers prepared for you Lord Royce. I'm certain that rooms will be found for your men too."

"Excellent. I wish Runestone had a maester as efficient as you, Maester Luwin. I envy Lord Stark's good fortune!" Lord Royce patted his son on the shoulder as he barked orders at his men to dismount.

Luwin led them into the Great Hall and insisted for Lord Royce and Waymar to sit at the high table. Lord Stark would have done so too. After supper, Luwin sent servants to direct the Valemen to their rooms before heading to the maester's turret under the rookery. His desk, cabinets and shelves were already cluttered. Lately, he had began putting stacks of parchments on his bed.

Opening the window, Luwin breathed deeply as a cool gust of wind slipped in and explored his tower. Earlier that morning, he received a letter from one of the other maesters in the Citadel: summer was approaching. No doubt the southron regions edged closer to summer already whilst the North waited patiently for its turn to embrace summer. Like everyone else – highborn and low – Luwin prayed and hoped for a long and fruitful summer. Spring and autumn were usually short spans of time in comparison to summer and winter. Luwin vaguely remembered a spring many years ago that lasted two years.

However, at the cost of a long summer was usually an equally long – or longer – winter. No one wanted a long winter.

Luwin lit a candle, careful not to put it too close to his parchments or vials of herbs and liquids. He settled down and reached for a quill, a piece of parchment ready in front of him. _Lord Stark_ , his quill scratched carefully on the paper. _Your wards Lord Domeric Bolton and Lord Waymar Royce have both arrived safely at Winterfell, the latter accompanied by his father and his own men and the former escorted by no more than two men from Lord Bolton's household. The men from the Dreadfort have already left and I expect Lord Royce and his men will depart tomorrow or the day after. Your faithful servant, Maester Luwin._

As he waited for the words to dry, his thoughts drifted to the future. Winterfell would remain in good hands under Eddard Stark and then his son, Robb. Luwin learnt that it was his predecessor, Maester Walys, who encouraged Lord Rickard Stark to pursue southron matches for his children. Luwin suspected it was not a popular decision thought by the other lords of the North and strove not to earn their contempt as his predecessor had done so. In fact, it might even be wiser if Lord Eddard strengthened his relationship with the Northern lords on a more permanent notion such as matrimony…once Lady Stark gives birth to a daughter or another son or two.

Fostering Domeric Bolton at Winterfell was a wise move. Luwin guessed that once Lady Ashara had a daughter and if Domeric pleased Lord Eddard greatly, a match would be made between the two. Luwin personally approved of it. When Lord Bolton visited Winterfell – thankfully quite rarely – there was an aura of ice and ruthlessness about him.

Now, affairs of the North. Luwin was pleased to write to Lord Eddard, telling him that all was well. No more territorial disputes between unruly clans and no sudden deaths of heirless lords. As long as the Boltons remain loyal to Lord Stark, Luwin was confident there was nothing to fear.

As he put his papers away, his mind turned to young Robb's betrothal. Only a child of two, a wife had been found for him and it was no other than King Robert Baratheon's daughter. _A fine match_ , Luwin mused, watching the yellow flames of his candles flicker. _It will unite the North closer to the south. Perhaps the match will bring the North more supplies for future winters to come. Now a union with the Reach or the Riverlands will be particularly useful…_

Luwin stifled a yawn. It was getting late. As he expected, entertaining Bronze Yohn and his men was exhausting mentally and physically. I will send the letters at dawn tomorrow. All men required rest – even him.

* * *

"Family, Duty, Honour?"

It was Domeric who answered solemnly and quietly this time. "House Tully – the queen's family."

"Growing Strong?"

None of Lord Stark's wards replied.

"House Tyrell," explained Luwin, pointing to the drawing of a golden rose on a grass-green field. "Their seat is Highgarden."

"Their words are very stupid," declared Waymar Royce, crossing his slender arms defiantly. "Every man grows strong at one point. My father says that only strong men can be men of the Night's Watch."

 _I hope you never say that to a Tyrell's face, young boy_. "No words are stupid, Lord Waymar," said Luwin sternly, "and strong men are needed throughout the Seven Kingdoms, not only at the Wall. Every man grows stronger, mentally if not physically. It could also mean power, something ambitious men seek. The Tyrell words can refer to their current influence and how it grows more over time. For further notice, do not ever insult another House's words."

Domeric nodded, Waymar too though more reluctantly. "Insulting one's House words is foresight for war," Luwin continued. "Both of you are honourable young men from good families; war is the last thing you want, is that not true?"

Two more nods.

"My father often says he desires peace," spoke Domeric.

Waymar looked at him disdainfully. "What does your father know of peace? I suspect he causes more war and peace."

By the Seven! Luwin wished Lord Royce had not left. Despite the boy's young age, he was even more arrogant than he initially thought. "It's almost time for Ser Rodrik's lesson," said Luwin, standing up. "You will both go to the courtyard and meet him there. I believe this is your first lesson and you will mostly be fitted for pads and armour and such. After an hour, you will have your midday meal in the Great Hall with the steward, Vayon Poole."

He hurried out before Waymar could say anything else pompously. Luwin had already completed his morning duties and with extra time, he decided to visit the nursery and check the children's health.

Domeric was a pleasure to instruct, but Waymar…Luwin prayed to the Crone to guide both him and Waymar in the right direction. He entered the nursery and smiled as he saw the three children playing on the furred rugs with an array of toys given as gifts from other lords (mostly to Robb as name day presents). Robb laughed as Daenerys grabbed the stuffed wolf from his hands. Despite her status as Lady Ashara's bastard niece, Daenerys Sand was blossoming into a beautiful little girl with her wavy locks of silvery-blonde hair and violet eyes. She looked like her Dayne father, yet something nagged Luwin…

Sitting beside Robb was Jon Snow, a picture book open in front of him. Once in a while, Jon would look at the drawings with interest. Shuffling closer, Luwin saw it was a sketch of the Wall. _A sign?_ He wondered. _Will Jon Snow follow his uncle in a career as a man of the Night's Watch?_ It was a good path for a bastard. Jon was half-Stark and Starks were oft drawn to the Wall.

Luwin sat down on a chair and watched the children play. It wouldn't be long before he will start educating them, even Daenerys. Once she leaves the nursery, a septa would be found to tutor her in the feminine tasks befitting a lady from a noble house. It was regrettable Daenerys was tainted by the bastard name 'Sand'. If she was a Dayne in truth, she would attract many suitors. Without legitimate children, would Lord Dayne not be interested in the wellbeing of his illegitimate daughter all the way in the North? He might want Daenerys back in Dorne once he hears of her beauty and good health. _I will write to Lord Dayne. He has a right to be informed about his natural daughter._

Noticing his stare, Daenerys toddled over to him. She giggled as she pulled one of his long sleeves. Her eyes sparkled as she laughed. Hearing her giggle, Jon and Robb walked up to them, the latter a little more unsteady on his feet. The boys both took turns pulling his woolly sleeves with great interest. Luwin could not help but smile at them indulgently. He knew Lord and Lady Stark wanted naught more than to return to Winterfell to see the children.

They would be surprised in the subtle change in Jon's behaviour. He was grave still, but less so. At times his dark eyes were fixated to the fireplace, but he would play with Robb and Daenerys more. It was good for a child to interact with other children his age – very healthy indeed.

Luwin quietly examined the heir of Winterfell. Robb was the perfect product of his parents' union. Half-Stark and half-Dayne. He had Lord Eddard Stark's dark hair and the purple eyes of his mother. No Stark had purple eyes before, but it was expected now after Lord Eddard wedded Ashara Dayne, who was said to be one of the most alluringly attractive women of her day. Purple eyes would now be a trait in Lord Stark's future descendants.

Reluctantly, Luwin pulled himself away from the nursery. He had ravens and messages to attend to as well as to check on Waymar and Domeric. As he turned to leave, a sparkle caught his eye. He slowly glanced around and made his way to Daenerys's bed. Nestled on top of her pillow was a pendant of the three-headed red dragon of House Targaryen.

Curious, Luwin picked it up. By the looks of it, it was old…most likely one of a dozen heirlooms from House Targaryen. Perhaps this pendant was given down to House Dayne over the centuries. Princess Daenerys Targaryen was married to the Prince of Dorne; one of her descendants may have wedded a Dayne. If that was not the case, there was Lady Dyanna Dayne who was married to Maekar I Targaryen before he became king.

Why would the pendant appear at Winterfell?

As if on their own accord, pieces clicked together in Luwin's mind. He shut his eyes. He did not want to believe it yet it was so…so obvious! Despite Lord Stark's word of honour that Daenerys Sand was his wife's bastard niece, they were all lies. There was no doubt Daenerys was a Targaryen. It was a clever story Eddard Stark invented – very clever indeed. However, Luwin was concerned. How long will the lords believe it?

 _It is not my concern_ , Luwin told himself, tucking the pendant into one of his pockets to examine later. _Lord Stark did not tell me of Daenerys's true identity for her own protection. For the sake of the child, I too will not say a word. Once Lord Stark returns, I will show him the pendant and follow his orders from then. As for now, I will pretend I've not thought of Daenerys Sand as a Targaryen and will continue my duties as per usual._

He glanced out the window and saw neither of Lord Stark's wards in sight. Ser Rodrik must have took them to the smithy or armoury. Good. Luwin was in no mood to hear more arrogant words from Waymar Royce. By the time he reached the rookery, a raven was waiting for him. Luwin fed it a bit of meat and gave it water before turning his attention to the letter. It was from Lord Stark and was written in some haste.

Luwin groaned as he read the letter. Again, Lord Stark was delayed in the south at the behest of the king. However, this time Lord Stark was not trapped with the court at King's Landing – he was to be at Storm's End with Lady Stark and all the other nobles from the realm to celebrate Lord Stannis Baratheon and Lady Cersei Lannister's grand wedding. _On a brighter note_ , Lord Stark had written, _Ashara is again with child._

* * *

 **Thank you for all those name suggestions! They were very helpful :) Anyway, this chapter takes place in 286 AC in case you had forgotten and I thought it would be interesting to write it in Maester Luwin's perspective. Half way though, I kind of faced mini writer's block and I didn't know what to do. It wasn't the greatest chapter, but hopefully the next chapter will be better :)**


	19. Davos I

From his place at one of the lower tables, Davos Seaworth picked at the food on his plate, distracted by the onion pie in front of him.

No doubt one of the serving boys thought it a jape to place a large onion pie in front of the Onion Knight. Davos did not care. The pie smelled good. Uneasily, he glanced up at the high table, meeting the eye of his grim lord, Stannis Baratheon. Stannis hated pomp and festivities as much as Davos did – even if it was for his own wedding. When Stannis's uncle, Lord Eldon Estermont congratulated him on his betrothal to the beautiful and wealthy Cersei Lannister, he wagered that even he, Stannis, would fall in love with her.

Stannis had looked at his uncle coldly and said, "Even if the king betrothed me to a hideous beast of a woman, I will still wed her out of duty. Who I marry is for the good of House Baratheon, not for my personal desires. If I fall in love with the lady, so be it. If I despise the lady till my death, so be it."

Davos swelled with respect towards him. If there was ever a man who was as bloody stubborn as a mule, determined and just, that man was Stannis Baratheon. There were many honourable and just men in the Seven Kingdoms, but the Lord of Storm's End was indeed one of a kind. Davos blinked as his wife Marya tapped him on the arm. "Lady Baratheon is breathtaking," she whispered, staring at the Lannister lady admiringly. Davos nodded. "Aye," he agreed, pushing a small bowl of creamy chestnut soup towards her. "I doubt she will be happy as the Lady of Storm's End as Stannis's wife."

"Poor lady," sighed Marya, shifting uncomfortably in the silky black dress with the edges trimmed with threads of silver. As the daughter of a carpenter, Marya had never worn silk garments before – neither had Davos. Even after she became Lady Seaworth, she was not attracted to silks and jewels. In fact, the only piece of jewellery Marya adorned was a single pearl threaded through by black string. It was a pearl Davos found in his smuggling days.

"I am glad you can come," said Davos, pouring her a cup of warm ale. "I know you'd rather be at home with the children-"

"It is Lord Stannis's wedding," interrupted Marya. "He is milord as much he is yours and I will not leave you here alone. Lord Stannis views you so highly he'd given you a place at the table with his vassal lords. How many knights are given that honour? We owe everything to Stannis Baratheon and as your wife, my place is here with you. I love our children, but I wish to tell Lord Stannis how grateful I am for his kindness. Do you think Lord Stannis will have time to listen and speak to us in his busy time?"

 _Stannis Baratheon does not like praises_. "Stannis disdains flattery," Davos said to her gently, "and even grateful words may offend him slightly. For the price of a few finger joints, you are now Lady Seaworth and the mistress of a keep on Cape Wrath, I can hunt deer in our own woods, our sons have bright futures, Dale is a squire for Stannis and there is talk of one of the Swanns agreeing to take Allard as a page in the coming year. Stannis never forgets his friends and loyal servants; I am always welcome at his table and I captain a war galley now, not a smuggler's skiff. The best way to please Stannis Baratheon is to continue serving him loyally and honestly." He instinctively touched the leather pouch – carrying the bones of his first finger joints from his left hand – that hung from the leather thong about his neck. Everywhere he went, he carried that pouch for luck.

"Onion Knight," a passing lord with large ears said distastefully. "You should not be here, Onion Knight. You don't look like a knight even in that silk you wear. You are naught but a smuggler!"

Davos snorted. _Onion Knight_. He quite liked the name. Ser Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight. "And you ser?"

The man puffed his chest out and said proudly. "Ser Imry _Florent._ "

 _I thought I recognised those large Florent ears_ , Davos wanted to retort, but he held his tongue. "Ser Imry." Davos nodded slightly. "I have Lord Stannis to thank for placing me here with my wife, Lady Marya Seaworth. Marya, this is Ser Imry of House Florent." His lips tightened as the arrogant Florent knight gave her one look of disgust before wrinkling his nose and sauntering away. Davos shrugged. He loved his plump Marya and would never trade her for anyone – especially for a slim lady with her head in songs. What use would a silly woman like that be to a man like Davos? Marya felt hardship with him and would never swap her old and comfortable woolly and practical dresses for elaborate gowns of silk nor waste money on minstrels and jewels when it should be spent on food.

"Father!" Davos's eldest son Dale, waded towards him and Marya through a sea of dancing lords and ladies, The Seaworth sigil of a black ship-and-an onion on the sails on a field of grey stitched on the breast of his simple tunic. Dale was proud to be a Seaworth and the infamous Onion Knight's son. "Father!" Dale said again. "Mother! Lord Stannis wants a word!"

Davos looked at the high table again and found four pairs of eyes staring back at him. He stood up and offered Marya his hand. The two of them made their way to the raised platform, Dale in the lead. Upon arrival, they dipped their heads and murmured, "Your Graces" to the king and queen before turning to Stannis and his bride. "Milord," said Davos quietly as his wife repeated him softly. "Milady. My son Dale said you wished to speak to us?"

"So this is the infamous Onion Knight," said King Robert, leaning forward with interest. "I have you to thank for saving Storm's End. If you had not smuggled my brother and his men those onions, I would most likely have lost two brothers and an ancestral home! Stannis did well in knighting you." He nodded appreciatively at an impassive Stannis. A few seats away from the king, an older man with broad shoulders also nodded approvingly. Noticing his glance, Stannis informed Davos that the older man was Jon Arryn, the king's Hand.

"Lord Stannis is a just man, Your Grace," said Davos, as the king requested to see his left hand. "He knighted me for my services to House Baratheon and cut off my finger joints for my crime of smuggling."

"I do not see that as just," commented Lady Cersei Baratheon, twirling a curl of golden hair around one of her slender fingers. Davos could not help but notice a band of rubies glistening from her hair. _Each ruby can feed the a poor family or two in Flea Bottom for weeks._

"It was more than fair, milady," Davos told her. She flinched as he showed her his left hand. "I never met a more just man than Lord Stannis. I paid justly for my past crime of smuggling – and Lord Stannis cleaved my finger joints off himself. The man who sentences also executes." Stannis looked uncomfortable. Lord Ned Stark, who sat beside Jon Arryn, nodded vigorously. "Aye," he agreed with a final nod. "Wise words, Ser Davos. Very wise indeed."

Davos inclined his head. "Thank you Lord Stark."

"I think Stannis did not reward you enough!" decided Robert, raising his wine cup for a refill. "Stannis, only a knighthood for this brave man who aided you in the siege? Not enough. Onion Knight, what say you to a lordship? Rainwood is an available lordship if you fancy it." He drank large gulps of wine before getting it topped up again. The king must be in a great state of drunkenness to go around offering lordships. Davos glanced at Stannis who looked astonished. "It is a great honour," said Davos carefully. "However, I was born a child of Flea Bottom and I will be content with my knighthood, Your Grace."

"Nonsense!" declared Robert. "I have decided you will be Ser Davos Seaworth, Lord of the Rainwood! I will have my Hand arrange all the papers and details and what not. You will be a lord by the end of the month, Onion Knight." He grinned at Davos as if he was pleased with himself.

"You planned for Renly to be Lord of the Rainwood when he is of age," Stannis reminded him bluntly.

"You should be pleased I have decided to honour one of your knights," Robert growled at him menacingly. "Renly is still a boy. Besides, I have decided to grant Renly lands from the Crownlands once he reaches manhood. I would have given him Dragonstone, but Jon convinced me you were a better choice." He grunted a little grudgingly. "Something about you being a seasoned soldier and commander and what not." He finished another cup of wine.

"Lord husband," said Queen Catelyn gently. "Do you not think you have drank enough tonight? Why not a cup of water?"

Robert glared at her. "I drink as much as I want!" he snapped. "Do you think I am Stannis, my lady? Water, bah! _MORE WINE!_ "

Catelyn did not even flinch at his outburst. "Indeed, lord husband," she said soothingly. "You are certainly not Lord Stannis. Why not ale then? The lords and ladies all love you as their war hero king. If you keep drinking, they will think you as nothing but a drunkard. Is that how you want to be remembered, my lord? As a drunk king or the war hero?"

Grumbling to himself, Robert shouted, "Ale! _NOW!_ "

Davos saw Ned and Jon exchange relieved smiles. So our Baratheon king has a drinking problem, thought Davos.

"You look lovely, Lady Seaworth," said Catelyn kindly. "Are you wearing your husband's House colours?"

Marya flushed with delight. "Aye, my queen," she answered joyously. "Black, white and grey of House Seaworth. You look magnificent, my queen." The queen nodded back kindly. Davos's smile froze as he heard what sounded like a snicker from the direction of Lady Baratheon.

Davos boldly stared at the Lion of Lannister's daughter as Marya and Catelyn spoke more. Fair haired, Cersei Lannister was dressed in a gown of red silk with long, billowing sleeves. Embroidered on it were swirls of gold. She was beautiful, but not to Davos Seaworth.

Seeing him stare at her, Cersei cocked her head with a sly smile. "Do you wish to say something, Onion Knight?" she asked.

"No, Lady Baratheon," said Davos shortly. She winced slightly. "Is something amiss, my lady?" he inquired.

"No, Onion Knight," Cersei replied, crossing her arms. "I am still…adjusting to being a married woman – and a Baratheon too. All my life I had been Lady Cersei Lannister. I still think I am!" She laughed.

"You are Lady Cersei Baratheon now," said Stannis harshly. He nodded stiffly at Davos and Marya. "Ser Davos, I expect you in my solar tomorrow morning to hear your thoughts of the matter of defence at Dragonstone. Lady Seaworth, your husband had told me you are a few months with child. My congratulations. After you have your child, you will serve Lady Baratheon."

"What?" said Cersei, a flash of outrage sparking in her emerald green eyes. At the same time, Marya uttered, "Milord?" in shock. Davos too, was taken back. He had never imagined his wife as Lady _Cersei_ Baratheon's companion.

"Milord," Marya said again, "I am unfit to serve as a companion to your lady wife. I was naught but a carpenter's daughter before I married Davos. I am poor company for a noble lady. I cannot…" Stannis dismissed her protests with a wave of his hand. "You will serve Lady Baratheon when she is _with child_." He sipped his lemon water. "You have had four children successfully, yes? All sons too. You are more than satisfactory to help Lady Baratheon bring a bonny child to term once the maester confirms she is pregnant."

"That day will never come," snorted Robert. "Do you know how to give a good fuck, Brother? To me you are as much a maiden as Lady Cersei!" Stannis kept an impassive expression while Cersei blushed.

Davos was horrified at the king's bawdy words. "I doubt you know where to stick your prick," Robert went on, Catelyn as pink as a strawberry. "If you have a good-sized prick that is." He looked at Cersei. "My dear good-sister, try and not be offended if Stannis does not satisfy you." He guffawed. "A beautiful woman as yourself…all the true men in this hall will want their cocks buried in your cunt. It is a pity you married Stannis. His cock is probably as limp-"

 _Bang._

Stannis slammed his cup on the table, lemon water sloshing out. "I hope you're not encouraging _my wife_ to shirk away from her marriage duties," he said frostily, his fingers on his right hand curling into a fist.

Robert sniggered.

"Come," said Catelyn grabbing Robert's hand. "Let us dance, lord husband. You promised you would dance with me." She shot an apologetic look at Stannis and Cersei before whisking Robert to the dance floor. "Tomorrow morning," Stannis said to Davos, grinding his teeth. "My solar."

Davos nodded. "Aye, milord." Taking Marya's comforting hand, they returned to their seats, Marya still horrified at Robert's uncouth words. "Must I be a lady companion to Lady Baratheon?" she said gloomily. "I have no desire to stay here for months without my children. Surely Lady Baratheon can have her own ladies here. Is there anything you can do to change his mind?"

"Once Stannis makes a decision," said Davos quietly, "nothing we do will ever change his mind. Nothing at all."

* * *

Davos entered Stannis's solar early next morning, his head still spinning with the events of Stannis and Cersei's wedding feast last night. The royal party and the other nobles were still lodging in guest chambers at Storm's End; the would prepare to leave in the afternoon.

"Milord." Davos found Stannis staring out the solar window grinding his teeth, his untouched cup of lemon water on his table. Davos tentatively joined him and looked out the window. The Lord of Storm's End's chambers and solar were part of the seaward side of the castle that stood proudly upon high white cliffs. Davos looked down and saw the sea; it was relatively calm today.

Surrounded by a massive outer curtain wall, about one hundred feet high and forty feet thick on its thinnest side and nearly eighty feet thick on its seaward side, Storm's End composed of a double course of stones with an inner core of sand and rubble. When Davos smuggled onions and other food into the castle, he had touched the walls out of curiosity and found them to be smooth and curving, so well placed and so perfectly together that even the strong winds could find no purchase. It was said that the castle was protected by spells woven into its very walls that prevented magic of sorts affecting or passing through it. Looking down at the sea, there was about one hundred fifty foot drop below the wall with no safe anchorage by the castle.

Davos remembered his first sighting of the castle in his small smuggler's boat during Robert's rebellion. From a distance, it seemed to be a single huge, spiked fist thrusting towards the sky in defiance. Closer, the castle consisted of one huge drum tower crowned with formidable battlements. The tower was so large that in his first few days there, Davos found himself helplessly lost in the labyrinth of rooms including the granary, barracks, armoury, feasting hall, library, solar and Stannis's privy chamber.

"Milord," Davos tried again. "You told me last night to come here and discuss the defences needed for Dragonstone."

He was answered by silence.

After what felt like hours, Stannis replied sullenly. "I did my duty."

"Milord?"

"Is there ale in your ears Davos? Must I repeat myself? _I did my duty_. I planted my seed in that Lannister woman."

Davos did not know what to say. "I did not ask…milord. Whether you had ah, impregnated your wife last night or no is none of my business."

"Damn Robert and his foul words! Do you think he had boasted to the other guests of his army of lovers, prostitutes and whores while insulting my honour and reputation?" He grinded his teeth. "He had all night to do so."

The king slunk away, drunk, with Lady Delena Florent beside him and they did not reappear during the festivities. "The queen would speak kind words about you," Davos countered. "She always stood up for you."

Stannis nodded. "A good woman our queen." Silence fell. "Queen Catelyn Tully is a model wife," he remarked, to Davos's surprise. "Mine own wife will have to curb her expenses speedily. I won't tolerate her owning thousands of gowns and jewels. Two or three will be quite enough. Did you see all attendants Cersei had with her yesterday? They all must go."

"Lady Baratheon will not thank you for it."

Stannis shrugged. " _I_ am the Lord of Storm's End, not Lady Baratheon."

"Milord, do you still wish to discuss defences at Dragonstone?"

"Aye. I plan to journey there in a few days' time and inspect the fortifications and strengthen the garrisons again. From now on, I plan to replace the soldiers at the garrisons fortnightly rather than monthly. A good idea, Davos." He nodded at Davos respectfully. "I will handpick the men to guard Dragonstone tomorrow at dawn. I will not have potential traitors and turncoats manning the walls. I expect you in the courtyard with me tomorrow."

"Aye milord."

"Eh? Nothing else to say?" Stannis looked at him suspiciously.

"It is Dragonstone's defences I am concerned of, milord. If you continue adding men from the Stormlands to man the garrisons at Dragonstone, there will not be enough men to guard Storm's End…in case of invasion. Now that Cersei Lannister is your wife, surely you can ask for a small squad of westermen to aid strength to the garrison at Dragonstone."

"I do not trust westermen. Too greedy and extravagant. I suspect all they will do is eat and drink from the stores at Dragonstone until food runs out."

"Ask for men from the Crownlands then. The king appointed you the Lord of Storm's End _and_ Lord Protector of Dragonstone. He should send you more men if he expects you to administrate both Dragonstone and the Stormlands."

"Bah. Robert cares naught about Dragonstone. It is nothing to him but a final victory against those Targaryens. The capture of their ancestral seat; Robert will never forget that." Stannis scowled. "He was not even there at the assault. A few good men died that day in the storm."

Davos only nodded. "Allard suggested we name the newest vessel after your lady wife," he informed him.

Stannis snorted again. "Name it whatever you want." He paused. "You have a number of fine sons. Dale is hardworking and honest. You must be proud to have such an excellent son. He will be a fine sailor one day. If I am graced with a son, I will put him under your care. You will teach him all he needs to know about ships and the sea. Lady Baratheon may protest, weep, beg, plead and shout as much as she likes, but she will do so in vain. Her uncle, Ser Kevan Lannister spoke to me last night. He wanted me to foster his son, the four year old Lancel."

"Did you agree, milord?"

"No. The Lannisters did not fight until victory was in our view. When old Lord Tywin was finally roused to fight, he sacked King's Landing and on his orders, his men murdered Elia Martell and her children. What he did secured Robert on the Iron Throne, but I despise child killers. At the king's command, I am now married to a child murderer's daughter. I will not suffer the presence of more Lannisters here at Storm's End."

"Milord, your wife was supplied with a rich dowry. Surely showing gratitude will strengthen the Baratheon-Lannister alliance."

"A rich dowry! Bah! Do you know where the dowry went once I wedded and bedded the Lannister woman? Straight into the royal coffers for my royal brother to squander away." Stannis grinded his teeth again.

Davos sensed it was almost time to leave. "Milord, there is no point dwelling on what is now in the past. It is time to move on. Have faith in the gods. They've already planned out your future."

Stannis's expression hardened. "I have no gods. I do not pray to the trees, the Drowned God or any other god and I lost faith in the Seven the day they decided to drown my lord father and lady mother in front of me at Shipbreaker Bay. Nay, Davos Seaworth. I have no faith in gods. They mean nothing to me."

* * *

 **Second last chapter of Part 1! I thought it would be nice to have Davos's POV for Stannis and Cersei's wedding. I definitely plan to have many different POVs in Part 2 :D I'm more than happy to jot down any particular person's POV you want me to write for Part 2. I have a nasty feeling that there'll be a splat of a dozen or more new characters in Part 2, so I'm creating two separate appendices for Parts 1 and 2.**


	20. Catelyn IV

All night Catelyn wept in her father's arms, not caring if other lords and ladies heard. She knew Robert would not stay faithful to her for long – if ever – but the impulse of acknowledging not one but _two_ bastards – one lowborn even! – and bringing them up alongside her own sweet daughter was too much.

Catelyn had begged him to remove that idea from his mind; he resisted. "They are my sons Catelyn," Robert said adamantly. "Edric is Delena _Florent's_ son. Do you think those Florents will be pleased if I did not acknowledge Edric as mine own son? Bastard he may be, he is mine son and I am obliged to take care of him. What better way than to put him in the royal nursery? You should be happy. Our little daughter will have siblings to play with." Catelyn did not bother to tell him their daughter was only two years old.

She felt her heart crack like glass when she heard the news of Robert bedding Lady Delena Florent on the night of Stannis and Cersei's wedding. Her heart only burnt with fury when she was told Robert's newest notion of having the bastard under the same roof as herself and Lyanna. Not only was that infuriating, but the nerve of Robert taking in another bastard-!

"Don't cry dear Cat," murmured her father, stroking her hair. "Don't be angry at Robert. All noble lords must acknowledge their bastards. That is the way. Your husband would have left them on the streets-"

"Why didn't he?" cried Catelyn. "Does he do this to hurt me? Does he think me an unsatisfactory wife?"

"Hush, little Cat. Any man will count himself lucky to have you as wife. Robert will never hurt you. It was Jon…it must've been Jon who convinced the king to take in a bastard or two."

Catelyn stared at her father, her eyes afresh with a new stream of tears. "My _good-brother_ is responsible for this?" It felt strange to address old Jon Arryn as her good-brother when he was ancient enough to be her grandfather, yet as any good Tully, she tried to accept him as family.

Hoster nodded, his blue eyes flashing with anger. "His honour costed nothing but trouble for you! I cannot believe I was foolish enough to marry him to Lysa! Oh Jon Arryn may be honourable with no bastards of his own, but telling Robert to house two bastards and recognise them as his own was too much! It must be Jon Arryn who was responsible! I will go and speak to him at once! He better have damned good reasons for forcing you to accept Robert's damned bastards!" He stormed out of her chambers after giving Catelyn a reassuring pat.

Catelyn wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. _What can I do? I am a Tully_. Family, Duty, Honour. What good would the Tully words do? Family first, but how could she love a husband whose seed spread from the cold North down south to the Reach (Robert had yet to set foot in warm Dorne – Catelyn highly doubted he would ever visit Dorne after what happened during the Sack of King's Landing)? _Mayhaps I can still love out of duty_. No. Loving Robert out of duty will in a way, stain her honour. Dutifully loving a king who planned to foist two young bastards upon her was wrong.

She took a deep breath. _Stay calm_ , she told herself. _You are heavy with child; it will only upset the child if you rage more_. Catelyn knew Delena Florent's bastard son would be acknowledged, but the other bastard? Who was he? Probably some bastard Robert sired upon a tavern whore. She patted her swollen stomach and calmed down considerably. Caressing her stomach always soothed her.

"My queen?" Ashara entered her chambers, concerned. "Ned heard the king's announcement and I thought it best to comfort you."

Catelyn smiled at her. "You are kind, Ashara." Her voice was weak from hours of weeping. "What time is it?"

"It is morning, my queen." _Morning already?_ Catelyn pulled the curtains away and was instantly blinded by a shaft of sunlight. She laughed hysterically. "I wept all night like a child," she remarked, smoothing her wrinkled skirts. "What did my husband say to the court?"

Ashara frowned. "Are you certain you wish to know?"

"Yes. I already cried all my tears away."

The Lady of Winterfell did not look convinced. She hesitated for a moment and said. "His Grace announced his acknowledgement of Delena Florent's child as his own. Delena Florent presented the babe, and Edric Storm – her bastard – looked every inch the king's son with his black hair and blue eyes. The king also said he will look after Edric's wellbeing and raise him alongside his own children in the royal nursery." She gave Catelyn a sympathetic look. "To further conciliate House Florent, the king promised to find Edric Storm a worthy bride when he is of age to wed, and betrothed Delena's cousin, Lady Selyse Florent, to Tywin Lannister's youngest brother Gerion, and had Barristan the Bold knight him. Of course she is much closer in age to Tywin's son Tyrion, but who would marry a dwarf? There was also talk of a marriage between Lord Florent's heir Alekyne and one of Lord Tyrell's nieces or cousins.

"After that, he had Jon Arryn bring in a boy of about three with black hair and blue eyes – obviously another one of Robert's bastards. I thought that he must've been another bastard he had begotten from another highborn lady; imagine my astonishment when the king announced the boy – Gendry – to be his and a lady from an alehouse! A lowborn and a bastard, and the king decided to acknowledge him and place him in the royal nursery! A scandal!"

"Did he say why he acknowledged Gendry?" said Catelyn softly.

"No…my queen."

"You said Jon Arryn brought him in?"

"Yes, my queen."

Her father must be right in saying it was the Lord of the Eyrie at fault. Robert barely listened to her and his lords; the only advice he listened to were from the lips of Eddard Stark and Jon Arryn, both of whom who were honourable to the bone. "How is Robert certain the boy is his?" Catelyn wondered aloud.

Ashara bowed her head. "I do not know, my queen."

"Don't look ashamed, Ashara, and how many times do I have to tell you to call me Catelyn? We are friends, are we not?"

"My husband housed one bastard under our roof; yours took two. Ned wants me to return to Winterfell to give birth to my child, but I cannot bear to leave you here to suffer the indignation of the bastards alone."

"You are too kind, Ashara. Too kind. However, the matter of Robert's bastards is mine to bear alone, not you." She glanced at Ashara's stomach. "When will you have your child?"

"A week or so. You?"

"Anytime between now and a week. Robert hopes for a son. He is happy with Lyanna, but I know he wants a son. The Iron Throne needs an heir."

"Ned said he did not care if our child is a son or daughter." Ashara glowed like a shining star as she spoke of the growing babe in her womb. "I know he'll want another son, but between us, I want a daughter. Ned promised me the honour of naming our child."

Catelyn felt envious. Robert had named their firstborn and he would definitely name their son – if it was a son in her belly. "Robert would want to name his heir Steffon," she said, walking to her wardrobe to find a new gown. At court, she was expected to wear a different gown every day. She hated that custom. "If another girl, she'll most likely be a Cassana."

"It is natural to name one's child after one's parents."

"I would love to name a daughter after my mother," Catelyn confided in her. "I hoped to name my daughter Minisa, but Robert wanted her Lyanna. I will have a good many daughters; one of them will be a Minisa. Will you name your daughter or son after your parents?"

Ashara laughed. "A Dayne name for a Stark? Asteria Stark? Hesperion Stark? I cannot imagine that. I considered Astraea and Dyanna but decided if I have a girl, I will name her after Ned's mother, Lyarra Stark. Perhaps after a few more sons and daughters I will give one or two of them Dayne names."

"Lyarra Stark and Lyanna Baratheon," mused Catelyn. "I hope one day they'll be close friends. Then again, they will be good-sisters once Lyanna marries your Robb. That betrothal will never break."

Ashara nodded in agreement. "I cannot wait until the day your daughter and my son wed, uniting our houses together."

"I cannot wait either."

"How is Lady Arryn?"

"Quite well! I have read a dozen letters she sent from the Eyrie and she seems to have adjusted to life there and has even began adopting the Vale fashion in her own gowns. I miss Lysa greatly, but at least she is content now."

"I too miss my brother and sister. I received a letter from my brother earlier in the month. His wife finally given birth to a child, a boy, before dying a few hours later from childbed fever. They named him Edric."

"Congratulations Ashara! Will you see him sometime soon?"

"I intend too." Ashara beamed. "Perhaps after I give birth."

The door opened and Uncle Brynden entered, grinning from ear to ear. "News from Riverrun, Your Grace," he informed Catelyn. "Lady Stark." He nodded as he caught sight of Ashara. "Edmure has a son," he told Catelyn at once. "Your father and I have just heard. He has a son! He named the babe Hoster, in honour of your father. Hoster is making plans to return to Riverrun as we speak."

Catelyn smiled. Edmure married and now a father! He could finally forsake his womanising ways and be a family man. "I wish I can be at Riverrun too," she said wistfully. "Edmure's wedding was beautiful."

She thought her own wedding was perfect. Marrying King Robert Baratheon in the Great Sept of Baelor was a dream, but Edmure had the honour of wedding Lady Leyla Hightower at the Starry Sept in Oldtown, once the centre of the Faith before the construction of the Great Sept of Baelor. Unlike her own wedding with Robert, Edmure's was more or less a family affair. Most Hightowers of Oldtown attended the wedding along with a dozen or so Tyrells, Redwynes, Rowans and other nobles from the Reach that married into House Hightower. From Riverrun, only her father attended with a small number of his men; Catelyn joined him, her uncle Brynden too, though more as her sworn shield than uncle. Sadly Lysa was the only Tully who could not make Edmure's wedding.

"Is the baby healthy?" asked Catelyn.

"Most likely," replied the Blackfish. "You, Lysa and Edmure were all bonny as children. Leyton Hightower had many children so fertility should not be an issue in Edmure's marriage with Leyla. Little Hoster is their first child of many! It will not be long before Riverrun is filled with the sound of children's laughter again." He smiled reminiscently.

Catelyn looked at Ashara. "May I have a moment alone with my uncle?" Her friend nodded. "I will go and…find Ned."

Once Ashara left, Catelyn said quietly. "Do you regret agreeing to be a sworn brother of the Kingsguard?"

Uncle Brynden looked taken back. "Cat…no! Why would you ask?"

"If you were not a knight of the Kingsguard, you could go home. You could go back to Riverrun and spend time with Edmure's son. You always loved children even though you had none of your own."

"I am a Tully-"

"Why did you not wed Bethany Redwyne all those years ago? You will always be a war hero in my eyes, Uncle, but you had the opportunity to marry a beautiful maiden from a highborn family _not_ from the Riverlands and have children! Were you in love with my mother?"

Brynden Tully had a look of horror similar to Lysa's when she was told of her marriage to old Jon Arryn. "Who told you that?" he demanded. "Your Grace," he added rather sheepishly.

"I heard rumours," said Catelyn truthfully. "A little at Riverrun when I grew up but more here. A few ladies said you loved my mother and refused to wed when she married my father."

"Lies. Your mother was a comely woman and I loved her…as a good-sister. I'd admired her from afar, but once she was wedded to your father, I turned my eye elsewhere. My betrothal to Bethany Redwyne…the match was grand."

"Yet you still rejected her."

"Aye."

"Why?"

"Cat…I have carried the truth with me for twenty eight years and will do so till my death. It is a story you do not want to hear."

"Uncle…you heard all the stories I told you since I was a little girl in Riverrun. I told you my fears, dreams complaints…you listened to them patiently and gave a good many advice. You loved me, Lysa, Edmure and even Petyr, yet argued with my father, beginning with your rejection of Bethany Redwyne. It is now my turn to listen to your stories."

Brynden shook his head stubbornly, his eyes misty with memories. "I do not wish to burden you with a story of tragedy and heartbreak. Not today. One day in the future, I will tell you about Bethany Redwyne. I promise."

Catelyn nodded, satisfied. Her uncle always kept his promises.

"Will you take little Hoster as a page when he is old enough?" she said with a smile as she remembered Edmure as the Blackfish's page. Edmure abandoned his duties at every opportunity he could find to slip to the nearest tavern or meet up with his friends. He only took his duties seriously once their father threatened to send him to the Twins to squire for Walder Frey.

"If I am asked," answered Brynden. "However, Hoster may have plans for his Tully grandson to page or squire for the king when he is of age. Mace Tyrell had already secured the promise of a position as squire to the king for his heir, Willas Tyrell. One Tyrell as the king's squire is quite enough. Does Robert know he must have a number of squires and pages as befitting his royal rank? You should also appoint a page, Catelyn, or a cupbearer. Many lords will consider it an honour for their sons or daughters to serve their queen."

"Do you have anyone in mind?"

"The Redwyne twins perhaps. Well one of them at least. If the Fat Flower plots against us, we will have the Redwynes neutral thanks to one of Paxter Redwyne's twins here as your page."

Catelyn was shocked. "To use one as hostage!"

Brynden nodded. "Aye. Robert Baratheon had been king for a little under four years and there is peace, but I do not trust the former Targaryen loyalists. There is nothing we can do about Dorne – for now – but we can pacify the Reach and quell their remaining thoughts of turning to find a Targaryen."

"Giving Willas Tyrell the chance to squire for the king…"

"Is nothing more than to tie the Tyrells to us if a grown Targaryen rises from the ashes and claims the Iron Throne."

"I thought Renly's betrothal to Margaery Tyrell will unite our houses?"

"They are both young; Renly ten and Margaery four. Betrothals can be broken and I suspect this one will…in time. Mace is foolish, but ambitious. He'll want his only daughter wedded to a powerful and influential lord, not the king's youngest brother who will inherit naught now that the lordship of the Rainwood is in the Onion Knight's hands. Unless the king yields Renly Dragonstone, Mace Tyrell will look elsewhere for a potential husband for his darling daughter."

"There's always the Greyjoys."

The Blackfish snorted. "Now that I'd like to see! A squid of the Iron Islands and a rose of the Reach united in marriage! Ha! Are you aware that Balon Greyjoy had affianced his second son Maron to Lord Mallister's younger daughter Tarra? Your father told me once he heard the news."

Catelyn nodded. Her father had ensured she was aware of every development no matter how minor, that occurred in the Seven Kingdoms. "I doubt it was part of a plan of peace between the Iron Islands and the mainland," she remarked. "It is odd behaviour for a Greyjoy."

"Aye. His father Quellon, wanted to reform the Ironborn way of life. A pity he did not succeed. Balon Greyjoy is up to something – I can sense it." The Blackfish glanced at the door suspiciously as if Balon Greyjoy and his men were lurking in the shadows right now.

"Who is Gendry?" said Catelyn, suddenly remembering her husband's lowborn bastard who was to join Lyanna in the nursery.

Her uncle was taken back. "Robert's bastard. Why?"

"He is lowborn."

"Cat! Who had been telling you all this?"

"Is there a reason why my husband decided to acknowledge one of his many lowborn bastards on a whim? And why him?" She felt a stab of pain in her belly. Ignoring it, she went on. "Why did he acknowledge – arrgh!" Catelyn stumbled as another bolt of agony twinged in her stomach.

"Cat?" said Uncle Brynden, concerned. "Cat! You must rest!" Before she could say another word, he rose from his seat and carried her to her bed as he'd done many times in her childhood. "Do not move!" he ordered, moving swiftly to the door. "I will call for Pycelle and inform the king!"

* * *

A guard of midwives circled Catelyn's bed like hawks as Robert held her hand and spoke to her more kindly and gently than he had done so in days. For the last week, she had been confined to her chambers in fear for her health. "Our good-sister Cersei had her first chid in Storm's End," he told her. "Once she's able to go around and move from her bed, she will return to court with Stannis. All the fuss of birthing the child in Storm's End because Stannis thought it would be a little boy!" He sniggered. "What a fool."

"A daughter then?" said Catelyn, breathing heavily as the familiar pains of her contractions began. "Stannis had a girl?"

"Aye. He named her Shireen." Robert snorted. "Hypocrite. Remember when he berated me for tarnishing our mother's memory by naming my daughter Lyanna rather than Cassana? Fool. Stannis himself named his girl Shireen! In his letter he said it was what our mother would've called Renly if he was a girl. As if I would believe his lies! Our mother always wanted another son, not a daughter! Ashara had gone into labour," he added, as if remembering it just then. "Pycelle predicts it be a long birth. I left Ned pacing in the godswood an hour ago. I guess he will still be there now." He chuckled again.

"Your Grace." The chief midwife stood in front of Robert. "The queen will be in labour very soon. It will be in your best interest to leave and wait outside if you so choose." Robert stared at her for a minute, his eyes lustily drinking in her long hair and bright green eyes. _Please no_ , thought Catelyn, wincing as the contraction pains quickened. _Robert, please don't…not now_. She recognised the signs of lust in a mere second. The midwife frowned. "Your Grace? The other women and I must attend to the queen. Now."

Robert blinked. "Aye." He stood up, giving Catelyn a quick kiss before striding out her birthing chamber. "I will be in my chambers!" he shouted as he left. _Was he telling me or the midwife?_ Catelyn had no time to think. The child was coming and she needed her strength. _All_ of it.

* * *

A strong, healthy wail shook the castle walls as the sun ascended to its throne in the sky. Its golden rays peeked through the windows, curious to see the child in Catelyn's arms.

Sweaty, tired and exhausted, Catelyn rocked the babe in her arms. "We have a son," she said triumphantly as Robert Baratheon entered the birthing chamber followed by a stream of lords, with the exception of Ned Stark. "The Iron Throne has an heir," she continued, noticing the last of her roses blooming. "Spring has ended and summer is here…as is the heir of the Seven Kingdoms." She raised the infant slightly. "My lord husband, my lords, I am delighted to introduce you to my son, Orys of the House Baratheon, Crown Prince of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men and heir to the Iron Throne!" Catelyn smiled. She had given the Seven Kingdoms a son – a summer prince.

A prince of the long summer to come.

* * *

 **I planned to update this yesterday as a nice way to round off 2015, but I had no internet! :( I considered writing the awkward bedding scene but didn't feel ready yet to venture into lemon territory haha. By the way, this is not a rewrite. I will upload Part 1's appendix momentarily :)**


	21. Appendix I

HOUSE BARATHEON

KING ROBERT BARATHEON, the First of His Name,

\- His wife, QUEEN CATELYN, of House Tully,

\- Their children:

\- PRINCESS LYANNA, a girl of two, betrothed to Robb Stark,

\- PRINCE ORYS, heir to the Iron Throne, a newborn infant,

\- His brothers:

\- STANNIS BARATHEON, Lord of Storm's End and Lord Protector of Dragonstone,

\- His wife, LADY CERSEI, of House Lannister,

\- Their daughter, SHIREEN, a newborn infant,

\- RENLY BARATHEON, a boy of ten, betrothed to Margaery Tyrell,

\- His bastard children:

\- EDRIC STORM, his acknowledged bastard son by Lady Delena of House Florent, a newborn infant,

\- Numerous others, including the girl at the Vale,

\- His small council:

\- GRAND MAESTER PYCELLE,

\- LORD JON ARRYN, Hand of the King,

\- LORD HOSTER TULLY, Master of Laws,

\- LORD STANNIS BARATHEON, Master of Ships,

\- SER KEVAN LANNISTER, Master of Coin,

\- SER BARRISTAN SELMY, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard

\- VARYS, a eunuch, called the Spider, Master of Whisperers,

\- His Kingsguard

\- SER BARRISTAN SELMY, called Barristan, the Bold, Lord Commander

\- SER JAIME LANNISTER, called the Kingslayer,

\- SER BRYNDEN TULLY, called the Blackfish,

\- SER LYLE CRAKEHALL, Called the Strongboar,

\- SER ARYS OAKHEART,

\- SER MANDON MOORE,

\- SER YORBERT ROYCE.

Principal houses sworn to Storm's End are Selmy, Wylde, Trant, Penrose, Errol, Estermont, Tarth, Swann, Dondarrion and Caron.

Principal houses sworn to Dragonstone are Celtigar, Velaryon, Seaworth, Bar Emmon and Sunglass.

* * *

HOUSE STARK

EDDARD STARK, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North,

\- His wife, LADY ASHARA, of House Dayne,

\- Their son, ROBB, the heir to Winterfell, a boy of three, betrothed to Princess Lyanna Baratheon,

\- His bastard son, JON SNOW, a boy of four,

\- His wards:

\- DAENERYS SAND, a girl of four, actually Daenerys Targaryen,

\- DOMERIC BOLTON, heir to the Dreadfort, a boy of six,

\- WAYMAR ROYCE, third son of Bronze Yohn Royce, Lord of Runestone, a boy of seven,

\- His siblings:

\- {BRANDON}, his elder brother, murdered by the commander of Aerys II Targaryen

\- {LYANNA}, his younger sister, died in the mountains of Dorne,

\- BENJEN, his younger brother, a man of the Night's Watch.

Principal houses sworn to Winterfell are Karstark, Umber, Flint, Mormont, Hornwood, Cerwyn, Reed, Manderly, Glover, Tallhart and Bolton.

* * *

HOUSE TULLY

HOSTER TULLY, Lord of Riverrun, Lord Paramount of the Trident,

\- His wife, {LADY MINISA, of House Whent}, died in childbed,

\- Their children:

\- QUEEN CATELYN, the eldest daughter, wed to King Robert Baratheon,

\- LYSA, the younger daughter, wed to Lord Jon Arryn,

\- SER EDMURE, heir to Riverrun,

\- His wife, LADY LEYLA of House Hightower,

\- Their son, HOSTER, a newborn infant,

\- His brother SER BRYNDEN, called the Blackfish

Houses sworn to Riverrun include Darry, Frey, Mallister, Bracken, Blackwood, Whent, Ryger, Piper and Vance.

* * *

HOUSE LANNISTER

TYWIN LANNISTER, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West and Shield of Lannisport,

\- His wife, {LADY JOANNA}, a cousin, died in childbed,

\- Their children:

\- SER JAIME, called the Kingslayer, heir to Casterly Rock, a twin to Cersei,

\- CERSEI, wed to Lord Stannis Baratheon, a twin to Jaime,

\- TYRION, a dwarf, fourteen,

\- His siblings:

\- SER KEVAN, his eldest brother,

\- His wife, DORNA, of House Swyft,

\- Their eldest son, LANCEL, a boy of four,

\- Their twin sons, WILLEM and MARTYN, two,

\- GENNA, his sister, wed to Ser Emmon Frey,

\- Their son, SER CLEOS FREY, seventeen,

\- Their son, TION FREY, a squire,

\- {SER TYGETT}, his second brother, died of a pox,

\- His widow, DARLESSA, of House Marbrand,

\- Their son, TYREK, a boy of four,

\- SER GERION, his youngest brother, betrothed to Selyse Florent,

\- His bastard daughter, JOY, a newborn infant,

\- Their cousin, SER STAFFORD LANNISTER, brother to the late Lady Joanna,

\- His daughters, CERENNA AND MYRIELLE,

\- His son, DAVEN LANNISTER.

Principal houses sworn to Casterly Rock are Payne, Swyft, Marbrand, Lydden, Banefort, Lefford, Crakehall, Serrett, Broom, Clegane, Prester and Westerling.

* * *

HOUSE ARRYN

JON ARRYN, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East and Hand of the King,

\- His first wife, {LADY JEYNE, of House Royce}, died in chilbed, her daughter stillborn,

\- His second wife, {LADY ROWENA, of House Arryn}, his cousin, died of a winter chill, childless,

\- His current wife, LADY LYSA of House Tully, currently childless.

Principal houses sworn to the Eyrie are Royce, Baelish, Egen, Waynwood, Hunter, Redfort, Corbray, Belmore, Melcolm and Hersy.

* * *

HOUSE TYRELL

MACE TYRELL, Lord of Highgarden, Warden of the South, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach,

\- His wife, LADY ALERIE of House Hightower of Oldtown,

\- Their children:

\- WILLAS, their eldest son, heir to Highgarden, a boy of eleven,

\- GARLAN, their second son, a boy of ten,

\- LORAS, their youngest son, a boy of five,

\- MARGAERY, their daughter, a girl of four, betrothed to Renly Baratheon,

\- His widowed mother, LADY OLENNA, of House Redwyne, called the Queen of Thorns,

\- His sisters:

\- MINA, wed to Lord Paxter Redwyne,

\- Their twin sons, HORAS and HOBBER, six,

\- Their daughter DESMERA, a girl of four,

\- JANNA, wed to Ser Jon Fossoway,

\- His uncles:

\- GARTH, called the Gross, Lord Seneschal of Highgarden,

\- His bastard sons, GARSE and GARRET FLOWERS,

\- SER MORYN, Lord Commander of the City Watch of Oldtown,

\- MAESTER GORMON, a scholar of the Citadel.

* * *

HOUSE GREYJOY

BALON GREYJOY, Lord of the Iron Islands, Son of the Sea Wind, Lord Reaper of Pyke,

\- His wife, LADY ALANNYS, of House Harlaw,

\- Their children:

\- RODRIK, their eldest son, heir to Pyke, a boy of thirteen,

\- MARON, their second son, a boy of eleven, betrothed to Tarra Mallister,

\- ASHA, their daughter, a girl of nine,

\- THEON, their youngest son, a boy of seven.

\- His brothers:

\- EURON, called Crow's Eye, captain of the _Silence_ , an outlaw, pirate and raider,

\- VICTARION, Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet,

\- AERON, captain of the _Golden Storm_.

Houses sworn to Pyke include Harlaw, Stonehouse, Merlyn, Sunderly, Botley, Tawney, Wynch and Goodbrother.

* * *

HOUSE MARTELL

DORAN NYMEROS MARTELL, Lord of Sunspear, Prince of Dorne,

\- His wife, MELLARIO, of the Free City of Norvos,

\- Their children:

\- PRINCESS ARIANNE, their eldest daughter, heir to Sunspear, eleven,

\- PRINCE QUENTYN, their elder son, a boy of six,

\- PRINCE TRYSTANE, their younger son, a newborn infant,

\- His siblings:

\- His sister, {PRINCESS ELIA}, wed to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, slain during the Sack of King's Landing,

\- {PRINCESS RHAENYS}, a young girl, slain during the Sack of King's Landing,

\- {PRINCE AEGON}, a babe, slain during the Sack of King's Landing,

\- His brother, PRINCE OBERYN, the Red Viper.

Principal houses sworn to Sunspear include Jordayne, Santagar, Allyrion, Toland, Yronwood, Wyl, Fowler and Dayne.

* * *

 **It didn't turn out as well as I wanted, but a nice way to finish Part 1 off with a G.R.R.M styled appendix.**

 **Thank you readers and reviewers! I hope you will continue reading Part 2 of The Dance of Spring, which will be uploaded shortly...I hope. Basically Part 2 will be the next chapter haha. Special acknowledgements to all those who took time to write a review, favourite and follow :)**


	22. The King's Hand

Jon Arryn felt old. His fatigued bones ached as he ascended and descended the many steps to and from his rooms in the Tower of the Hand. He had requested a simpler chamber conveniently closer to the council chamber, but Robert would have none of it. "You are like a father to me," he had declared when he dismissed Jon's appeal, "and you'll have every honour and comfort you deserve, beginning with the position as my Hand." Jon did not think being the Hand of the King was either a comfort nor an honour.

For days, he pleaded with Robert to recant his decision. "I am an old man and not worthy of the honour as Hand," he had said. "Find another, more worthy man to be your Hand. I will not last a year in office." Surprisingly, he had lasted fifteen years…for now. Days slowly slunk by and Jon begged resignation from the office of Hand; Robert refused.

"My lord Hand. You look rather wane today." Jon struggled to turn around as he heard the enigmatic voice of Varys the eunuch.

"Lord Varys." Jon acknowledged him with a nod. He detested the wily eunuch but had to admit he fulfilled his duty as the Master of Whisperers on a more than satisfactory level. Robert found him an extremely useful asset in his council and called him the Spider. _Indeed_ , thought Jon, it seems the eunuch has eyes and ears in every nook and cranny in the Seven Kingdoms. "I hope you are here other than to comment on my health," said the Lord of the Eyrie, stifling a cough with a linen handkerchief. "I am a very busy man."

Varys tittered. "Indeed not, my lord Hand. Indeed not! I too am a busy man. A little bird told me you need my help." He smiled mysteriously at him. "Did one of my little birds sing true?"

As much as he hated the aid of a secretive eunuch, he s needed it. Jon slowly gestured for Varys to sit on the empty chair opposite him in his solar. Varys gave him another furtive smile before sitting down.

"Highgarden is a lovely place to be at this time of year," the Spider remarked, rubbing his plump hands together. "Have you thought of visiting it sometime, my lord Hand? A respite there may improve your health."

 _Pycelle had given me more herbs and remedies of late_. "Whilst you feed and care for your… _little birds_ , I am burdened with the task of ruling on King Robert's behalf," answered Jon. "I have no time to visit Highgarden. Besides, I have my son and daughters to care for." Guilt jabbed him as he thought of the three children he sired with Lysa Tully.

Their marriage was useful; military support during the rebellion and political support. Jon was no fool. He knew Lady Lysa hated him and she had every reason to. He was old and no knight in shining armour she probably thought and dreamt of from those ridiculous songs sang by minstrels in Riverrun. Jon hoped she had enjoyed the honour heaped upon her as the wife of the King's Hand and the sister of the queen, but it appeared she preferred living in the Eyrie than at court. If it made Lysa happy, so be it. Despite a number of miscarriages and stillborn infants, she had given him three healthy children: beautiful Sansa, his only son and heir Robert (named after the king of course) and sweet Alyssa.

All three of them were raised in the royal nursery – and then the schoolroom – alongside their Baratheon cousins at court. It pained Jon that they were so close to him yet he never had enough time to spend more than a few hours with them per day. State matters had always kept him away. Jon silently groaned as he saw the stack of letters at one end of his messy table. Sansa and little Robert were of age to be betrothed; no doubt a great many of those letters were marriage offers from other great lords.

Noticing Jon's glance at the mountain of letters, the eunuch's smile grew. "You must be proud of your lovely children," he said softly. "Beautiful Lady Sansa who is still living in her dreams…your heir coddled by his mother…sweet Lady Alyssa soon no longer a little girl…the Lady Sansa was _most_ disappointed when you told her to remain at court rather than travel to Winterfell with the royal party. Even ailing Lord Tully permitted his eldest two Tully grandchildren to go to Winterfell with their royal uncle and aunt."

"What does this have to do with Highgarden?" said Jon testily.

"Everything of course…or nothing at all." Varys giggled. "Willas Tyrell is still in need of a bride…and the Lady Margaery is no longer a child."

The King's Hand frowned slightly. What Varys said was true. Finding the heir to Highgarden a wife was no concern of his, but the Lady Margaery Tyrell was a woman grown and Lord Renly Baratheon could finally claim her as his wife. _He'd certainly waited long enough_ , mused Jon. Twenty one years of age and an almost precise version of a young Robert Baratheon, his brother Renly was much-loved at court…and still betrothed the Margaery.

"It is time the king's younger brother and the Lady Margaery are wedded and bedded," Jon agreed. "The line of succession is firmly secure with the king's own two sons, his brother Lord Stannis, Stannis's three fine sons and Lord Renly. It is the Tyrells I am concerned about. This has been a long summer by far, and we'll soon have a long winter. While all the regions are somewhat prospering, it is the Reach and the Riverlands prospering the most by far on the fields. When winter comes, there will surely be a shortage of supplies once we hit the heart of a long winter. By then, it will be the Reach the most prepared."

"The realm will need House Tyrell's grains and stores of food."

"Indeed, Lord Varys. If Renly and Margaery have not wed by then…"

"We will no doubt have Margaery Tyrell as the future queen in exchange for House Tyrell's…goods."

"There must be no more delay." Jon stood up. "I will summon the others for a meeting in the council chamber."

Varys remained seated. "Very well, my lord Hand, but before you do, you may be interested in what else I have to say."

Jon looked at him. "What is it?"

"My little birds twittered loudly…from Dorne."

"What of Dorne? There is peace – though uneasy – between the Iron Throne and Dorne. Prince Oberyn may be quite hot-headed and demanding revenge, but his brother Doran, the Prince of Dorne, agreed for peace when I went there at the end of Robert's rebellion."

"That was fourteen years ago, lord Hand. Uneasy peace can be brokered and broken in fourteen years."

 _If not less_ , thought Jon grimly. "How old is Doran's heir?"

"She will be twenty two in a months' time, my lord Hand. She is more than old enough to be a wife, do you not agree?"

Jon nodded slowly. Twenty two and unwed! And a woman too! "This matter of Dorne can wait. I am more concerned with the Reach. I will summon Lord Tyrell and discuss a match between his heir Willas and my eldest daughter Sansa. They won't accept anyone but a princess, a lady stocked with royal blood or the eldest daughter of a great lord." Surely the ambitious Lord of Highgarden could see the wisdom in an alliance with the King's Hand! Well, at least his mother would. "It is about time Sansa is betrothed," he said aloud, more to himself than to Varys. "She will not be my daughter forever."

Varys rose. "I'll leave you to it then, my lord Hand. A piece of advice: keep the news of Dorne to yourself. I will tell you more once my little birds whisper in my ear." He smiled for the third time. "I know how difficult it is for honourable men like you to hide a secret."

* * *

Jon summoned his children to his solar for the first time in days. His eyes widened in shock as he saw his son.

He instantly reached out and gripped Sweetrobin's arms. Fear struck him as he felt naught but thin bones. How was he to send his sole heir away for fostering if he was so small, pale and prone to illness? All his previous heirs were healthy and strong; Sweetrobin had been cosseted by women for far too long. When he had time to spare, he took his children to the Eyrie with Lysa. Lysa only returned with them to court when Jon insisted Sweetrobin continue his education with his sisters and cousins at court.

Sweetrobin's wane appearance worried Jon and his thoughts directly flew to the succession to the Eyrie. With Sweetrobin so ill… _if only Lysa had given me a couple more robust sons!_ The prospect of Sweetrobin dying young or dying with no children of his own was quite high – Jon never blinded himself with lies when the truth shone in front of him – and his immediate heirs were his sisters Sansa and Alyssa. Valemen were ruled by female Arryns before and Jon was not at all worried about that, but with Sansa wedded to a Tyrell…Jon had already regretted suggesting the match.

"Is it true Father?" said Sansa excitedly, tossing her flaming auburn hair over her shoulder as she grabbed his arm. "Am to marry Willas Tyrell?"

Jon was taken back. "How do you know, dear child?"

"Lady Margaery told me before you summoned us!" Her bright Tully blue eyes glowed with eagerness at the prospect of marriage with the heir of a great lord. "I hope it is true!" she said, releasing his arm to clasp her white, soft hands together with joy. "Margaery will soon be my sister _and_ aunt once I marry Willas and she weds Uncle Renly." She paused momentarily. "When do you think we will marry? Before or after Margaery's wedding?"

Jon always loved listening to his children's chatter, but Sansa's talk of her own impending betrothal disturbed him. "Lord Tyrell had not even agreed to his and your betrothal yet," he said gently.

Sansa frowned. "Why would he say no?"

He may want a princess for his crippled heir. "You are still a girl," Jon told her soothingly. "Willas is a man. Even if Lord Tyrell agrees, Willas will still be obliged to wait for you to grow up." _It seems sweet Lady Margaery is more the Queen of Thorns than Mace Tyrell_. Jon repressed a shudder. He disliked the growing Tyrell influence on his daughter, but what could he do? Both Margaery and Sansa were part of Queen Catelyn's entourage of ladies and as the former was only five years older and from what he heard, witty and clever, the impressionable Sansa would look to her as some sort of elder sister. Jon supressed a sigh. Mayhaps it would've been better if he accepted Hoster Tully's offer of fostering Sansa and Sweetrobin alongside his own Tully grandchildren at Riverrun.

"What if he thinks me ugly?"

Jon arched an eyebrow. His eldest daughter had inherited every physical trait from Lysa, from her vivid blue eyes, high cheekbones and glossy locks of auburn hair. Since she could walk and talk, he had received a flurry of proposals for her hand, one of which was from Walder Frey. Jon shuddered with revulsion at the thought of his beautiful, innocent Sansa wedded to a Frey.

"No one will think that," said Jon honestly. He patted her hand. "What do you think of going to Riverrun for a short time?"

"Will Cousin Melia be there?"

"No. She is on her way to Winterfell." _As you well know_ , Jon wanted to add. It was still a mystery to him why the ill Lord of Riverrun would allow his grandson Hoster and his eldest Tully granddaughter, Melia, to freeze to death in the harsh, cold North. Then again, their mother Lady Leyla was part of the queen's ladies as their father Edmure remained at Riverrun by his father's side.

"Margaery invited me to supper," said Sansa unexpectedly. "She said that as I will be her future sister, it would be good for me to meet her grandmother." She smiled. "Margaery said there will be lemon cakes today." Jon loathed the Tyrells more and more every minute.

"Did you accept?"

Sansa nodded, beaming broadly. "You should have spoken to me about it first," Jon admonished quietly. "It would be more proper if Lady Margaery or her father sent us a letter. It is not right for you to dine alone with the Tyrells. Perhaps you should bring one of your cousins with you."

"Which one? All of them are on their way to Winterfell."

True enough. "I will have Ser Vardis Egen accompany you," Jon said, knowing full well that Sansa would beg and plead to allow her to attend supper with the Tyrells if he forbade her to go. "You are to never leave his sight and if the Tyrells order him to leave, he will be under my orders to remain at your side."

"What will the Tyrells say!"

 _What will the Tyrells say indeed_. "Once the king and queen return, I want you to return to the Eyrie with your mother," said Jon, as the door opened and a grim Lord Stannis Baratheon appeared with his squire, a Seaworth. Knowing his brief time with his children were at an end, Jon kissed each child on the cheek before bidding them farewell. _I should never have allowed Sansa to remain at court_ , Jon thought regretfully. _At least she will be safe in the Eyrie…soon_. He smiled at the middle Baratheon brother who nodded stoically back.

"You kept your elder sons here," Jon remarked.

"Not for long," Stannis Baratheon answered. "At dawn tomorrow, Lord Davos Seaworth will escort Steffon back to Storm's End. Robert will remain here as Ser Barristan's page. I doubt you are here to speak of my children, my lord Hand." He looked at him suspiciously.

"The king did not take Edric Storm in out of the goodness of his heart."

Stannis snorted. "If he did, I would believe the Others have returned. I know it was you and the honourable Lord Stark who were behind it. Why mention what had occurred eleven years ago, lord Hand?"

"What would you have done with the boy if we had not intervened?"

"Send him to Dragonstone." Stannis grew impatient. "Lord Arryn, what is with the questions? Do you think I am the type of man who will harm an innocent boy for the crimes of his womanising father and foolish mother? There is no justice in slaughtering innocent children. If there were, I would have killed the Targaryen children the day our ships assaulted Dragonstone." He darkened. "It still strikes me odd that Lord Stark had the strength to kill the Targaryen children – well, the boy at least. The girl died of the dampness in the black cells I believe. Would it be considered kinslaying as Robert gave the order?"

"My apologies for the questions, Lord Stannis. I need a favour…from you."

"Oh? Why me?"

 _Frankly, you owe me a favour for ridding you of Edric Storm_. "You are the only man I know who may have a chance to turn my son and heir from a weakling to a strong, just man men will follow into battle," replied Jon. "I saw your son Steffon, and he is a boy who knows his duty and honour. My son had been pampered for too long by my wife; it is time he becomes a man."

For perhaps the first time in his life, Stannis looked astonished. He had ceased grinding his teeth and stared at Jon. "You want me…to foster your son," Stannis said finally. "That is…unexpected, Lord Arryn."

"I will consider it an honour if you agree to foster Swe-Robert at Storm's End. I do not feel comfortable for my heir to remain at court anymore. If I leave him in the Eyrie, his mother would only coddle him further. To Lysa, our Robert would always be her sick baby boy."

"I see. The king will think you a fool and say his court does not need any more little Stannises." Jon would have laughed if he did not glimpse Stannis's serious expression. _He is perfect to foster Sweetrobin_ , he pondered. _Sweetrobin needs a firm hand and who better than Stannis Baratheon?_ "My brother will recommend you to send your son to Winterfell," Stannis continued, scowling. "Maybe Robert wants your heir to wed a Stark too."

Ned did have a daughter a year younger than Sweetrobin. "Northmen will not think my son will survive to adulthood. As the only male Arryn – apart from me – I need him to reach adulthood in blooming health."

"Riverrun would be suited for his health."

"His grandfather Hoster Tully would only dote on him."

Stannis gave a short nod. "Aye. A terrible idea. A spoilt boy will be a weak man once he grows up. Like Renly." He scowled again. _Stannis scowls as much as the Spider smiles_. "I should not have allowed Renly to come to court," Stannis grunted angrily. "Once he did, he did not want to leave. I threatened to send him alone to Dragonstone but that craven of a brother begged and _cried_. Robert accused me of being cruel to Renly and removed him from my care."

"Lord Renly is quite popular at court."

" _Lord_ Renly? Lord of what?" Stannis made a sound that was between a snort and a sneer. "He seemed to have Robert's habit of forgiving and forgetting. _I_ will never forget. It seems Renly's closest companion is Loras Tyrell. A _Tyrell_. A fool, Renly. An utter fool."

 _Perhaps it is wise for Renly to befriend a Tyrell_ , Jon wanted to say. _The Tyrells have been back in the king's good grace for over a decade and only you still hate them for their part in Robert's rebellion. Was it so wrong for them to side with the Targaryens rather than with Robert?_ "Renly is betrothed to Ser Loras's sister," Jon reminded him. For a moment, he thought he was in the Eyrie…a mere day before Brandon Stark met his death in King's Landing. "Rhaegar Targaryen is the crown prince," he had told a furious Robert. "You cannot go around ranting and raising your banners and declaring war for what he did to your betrothed."

"One Tyrell is enough," Stannis muttered.

"There is another matter I'd like to broach…"

"What is it?"

"A betrothal."

Again, Stannis looked taken back. "What?"

"I knew Robert Baratheon since he was a boy, and as much as he is a merciful king and an able warrior, he needs strong men with sense to quash his anger. I'm aware that you think the king does not value you much as a member of the small council or a brother, but believe me, Lord Baratheon, he does. Why do you think he did not take Dragonstone away from you and give it to Lord Renly now that he is no longer a boy?"

"What does that have to do with a betrothal, Lord Arryn?"

Jon glanced around cautiously and said softly. " _Tyrells_ , Lord Baratheon. Roses have thorns…and roses grow and spread quickly. I know Lord Mace Tyrell. A fool he may be, but he has formidable soldiers and a hunger for power that can never be sated. Furthermore, the Reach has a large army they can use to begin a revolt any time the Tyrells wish. I do not trust them and I know you do not either. I'm certain we can work out the details of the betrothal contract at a later time, but what thinks you of a betrothal?"

"Between?"

"Your heir Steffon, and my daughter, Alyssa. I will provide a substantial dowry and give it to you in person."

Stannis nodded slowly. "I will consider it, Lord Arryn." He turned to leave. "I must go and speak to Lord Davos."

"One more request, if you will. Can Lord Seaworth take my Robert and Alyssa with Steffon to Storm's End?"

"Very well. Prepare them to board a vessel at dawn tomorrow." He left. Tired, Jon reached for a quill, a pot of ink and parchment and began to write, his hand shaking. All day, he had felt…strange. Something was amiss. _I am an old man_ , the Hand of the King thought as he scratched his name on the paper. _My fears…they are an old man's dread, nothing more._

* * *

 **Beginning Part 2 was slightly more difficult than I anticipated. I couldn't decide whose POV to start Part 2 and after writing a few different POVs, I settled with Jon Arryn's. It is currently 298 AC. This is the list of children mentioned SO FAR:**

 **Stannis and Cersei's children: Shireen (11 years old), Steffon (9 years old) and Robert (7 years old)**

 **Jon and Lysa's children: Sansa (10 years old), Robert (6 years old) and Alyssa (4 years)**

 **Edmure and Leyla's children: Hoster (11 years old) and Melia (10 years old)**

 **More children will be mentioned soon as Part 2 progresses. I know many of you may not be happy that Sansa isn't a Stark in this story, but I hope you will enjoy what I planned for her. I assure you, I will try and make her as similar to Sansa Stark in the books and TV show as possible...the very girly side of her that is.**


	23. Ashara III

Her skirts still powdered with flour from an accident in the kitchens, Ashara bustled in and out of the Great Hall to prepare for the royal visit. Since dawn, she had hurried from the highest tower to the kitchens in Winterfell to ensure utter perfection for the arrival of the king and queen and their retinues.

Over a month ago, Catelyn had written to Ashara, informing her that the royal court will visit Winterfell shortly to renew the betrothal between Robb and the Princess Lyanna. Most likely some idea of Robert's. Ashara was excited to see the queen again, and her future good-daughter, but the idea of readying chambers and food and drink for the entire court!

Riders from House Cerwyn had reported that their lord was housing the royal party at his castle for the night and they would make their way to Winterfell over the next two days. Rushing across through the Great Hall again, Ashara skidded to a halt as she caught a glimpse of Maester Luwin shuffling out.

"Maester Luwin!" she called, hitching up her skirts and running to him. "Have you heard? The Lannisters will be coming here too!"

The maester stopped and slowly nodded. "Well that will be expected, my lady. Ser Jaime Lannister is a knight of the Kingsguard and Lady Cersei Lannister is the king's good-sister."

"No, it is not them. It is their brother Tyrion, the Imp. He will be here too."

Maester Luwin's eyebrows rose. "Lord Tyrion will be here too?"

"It appears so. From what I heard, Lord Tyrion is an avid reader; perhaps you could show him the library after he settles in and place a couple more candles in his chambers? I want our guests comfortable and happy in Winterfell."

"Of course my lady. What of his ah, love of wine?"

Ashara thought for a moment. "Discreetly put a bottle of it near the candles in his rooms," she advised. "What Lord Tyrion does in his chambers is his business – even if he is our guest." The Imp was notorious for his short stature, love of the bottle…and tumbling with whores and prostitutes. She hoped Tyrion would have the decency not to bring a whore into Winterfell's rooms.

"Very well my lady. It will be done. Here is a letter for you, my lady. I received it only a few minutes ago." Maester Luwin handed her a scroll and nodded before leaving to put another candle or two in one of the guest chambers. Ashara settled down on one of the benches in front of a trestle table and opened it. She smiled as she saw it was from Allyria. The last time Ashara saw her little sister at Starfall, Allyria had been a girl of fourteen, newly betrothed to Lord Beric Dondarrion of Blackhaven, a lord from the Stormlands. Most likely part of the betrothal contract, Lord Dondarrion had taken in their nephew Edric Dayne, as page. It was merely a year since he was elevated to the position of Lord Beric's squire. Without another thought, Ashara began to read.

 _Dearest Ashara,_

 _It had been quite some time since I last heard from you. Have matters at Winterfell kept you from writing letters more frequently? Unfortunately I must convey terrible news: our brother is dead. There was a tourney in Sunspear and he participated in the melee. He fought well…until he was up against the Red Viper._

 _By the time you receive this letter, our brother would be long buried in the crypts of Starfall. Please come and visit Starfall for a short time; we need you. Edric is still a boy and squire to Lord Beric. He cannot return to Starfall until he has been knighted. I am now old enough to be a wife and I fear it will not be long before Lord Beric Dondarrion claims me for our wedding. I am happy with Lord Beric as my future husband and he too is fond of me. While I look forward to being his wife and the Lady of Blackhaven, I dread the idea of leaving Starfall empty without a Dayne. I know you are now a Stark, but you are also a Dayne. Will it be possible if you come and run Starfall for a few months?_

 _Another matter had occurred. After our brother's death, Prince Doran sent his condolences and offered his cousin, Lady Matysse Martell as the future wife of Edric. I told him I must consult with you and he gave me a few months to consider it – quite generous of him too. Lady Matysse is a year younger than Edric and has Yronwood blood in her veins through her mother. I think the match between Edric and Lady Matysse Martell would be beneficial for our House, but I will leave the final decision up to you. I would be delighted if you can come to Starfall and discuss it in person with me, but a letter would be just as good. I hope to hear from you soon, dear sister._

 _Your sister,_

 _Allyria._

Ashara sighed, rubbing her forehead with worry. It was pleasant to hear from Allyria again, but she sensed there was more political trouble looming ominously in Dorne. Perhaps once the royal party departs, it would be time to prepare for a trip down to Starfall.

Folding the parchment swiftly, Ashara resumed her earlier tasks of preparing and supervising. She headed to Robert and Catelyn's guest rooms for another last minute inspection. As she turned the corner to the corridor, she caught sight of a small, skinny child creeping away stealthily.

"Arya!"

The child froze, guilt and alarm painted on her long face. Ashara hurried to her daughter and looked at her sternly. "Arya Stark!" Ashara said, crossing her arms and blocking her way. "What in the name of the Seven are you doing?"

The nine year old Arya muttered, "Nothing." Ashara stared at her right in the eye and arched an eyebrow. "Were you rude to Septa Mordane again?"

Arya's grey eyes shifted to the ground as she mumbled, "No." Ashara inspected her from head to toe. Her brown hair coiled in a tiny bun was a tangled mess and closely resembled a bird's nest. How Arya even tied it in a bun was a miracle. She was the skinniest and smallest of Ashara's children, but the most spirited and the most boyish of her three daughters. Admittedly, Lyarra, Arya and Gwenysse were all lively girls, but Arya was more…temperamental.

" _Arya_." Ashara gave Arya a warning glare.

"I did nothing wrong!" her stubborn daughter exclaimed. She suddenly looked sheepish. "I was bored and escaped," she said in a rush.

Ashara frowned. "What?"

"I was bored and escaped!" Arya repeated loudly. She pouted. "Oh, why can't I go and fight with my brothers? I'm tired of all these pointless lessons! What's the use of sewing if we are attacked by bandits on the kingsroad? How will singing or dancing save us from death?"

Ashara's frown deepened. "You have already missed too many lessons. I know you do not want to be a lady, but you still have to learn." She pushed her towards the schoolroom. "Go back and apologise to Septa Mordane."

"You let Bran climb the walls."

"I do not _let_ him climb the walls, Arya." Ashara sighed. Now was not the time to deal with Arya…"Go," she said wearily. Arya's eyes widened in surprise. "Just go," Ashara said, waving her hand dismissively. "Once the royal party leaves and matters return to their normal state, we'll have a _serious_ talk. Before supper, you will apologise to Septa Mordane and something will be done for you to catch up on your lessons. Where's Lyarra?"

"Still in the schoolroom. Dany's with her too." Before Ashara could ask or say anything else, Arya darted away like a rabbit. Muttering to herself, Ashara went to the schoolroom. Technically it was more a gathering room or something of the sort. Sitting on comfortable chairs in a circle with their embroidery and sewing were her eldest daughter Lyarra, Daenerys Sand and a few of their companions including Vayon Poole's daughter Jeyne, and Ser Rodrik Cassel's little girl, Beth, who was more around Arya's age than Lyarra's. Presiding over them were their tutor Septa Mordane, a bony-faced and sharp-eyed woman.

"My lady," said the septa, dipping her head when she noticed Ashara lingering near the door. "May I be of assistance?" Her hawk-like eyes swept over the girls present and her lips tightened. "I'm afraid Lady Arya had disappeared again," she said with an exasperated sigh.

"I am not surprised." Ashara shook her head with a small laugh. She pitied the septa for her duties in transforming Arya into a highborn lady. It was proving to be a task as difficult as keeping Daenerys's heritage a secret. The more Daenerys bloomed into a beautiful maiden, the higher the chance someone would discover her as a Targaryen. "Lyarra, Daenerys." She beckoned for her daughter and ward to follow her. Both girls rose gracefully and obeyed.

As they approached, Ashara could not help but look at them with satisfaction. Despite them sharing the same pretty purple eyes, the two girls were as different as night and day: Lyarra had inherited her locks of long, cascading dark hair and high cheekbones; Daenerys had lustrous tresses of silver-blonde hair. _Her hair is of a slightly lighter shade for a bastard Dayne_ , thought Ashara uneasily. She had seen her nephew Edric, and he had pale blond hair – a different colour, but to an unsuspecting watcher, both were Daynes.

"Lady mother." Lyarra flashed a brilliant smile at Ashara. "I hope you have not asked us to go Arya hunting again."

"You noticed?" Ashara could not help but ask. "Why did you not tell your septa about it? How many times had Arya ran off?"

"It was the septa's duty to watch over _all_ of us," Lyarra answered, "not fawn over my sewing as if it was the best in the world." She snorted. "It most certainly was not the best in the world. I understood Arya's need to take some time off so I said nothing. She probably wanted more time with Jon."

"What of you?" Ashara looked at Daenerys.

"I was not listening to Septa Mordane," Dany admitted guiltily. "I was thinking of…other stuff. My apologies, my lady." She blushed.

Ashara nodded. "I need the two of you to help as escorts when the royal family arrives with their noble retinue. Lyarra, I want you to play the harp and sing for us during the feast. You will also entertain and show Melia Tully and the Princess Lyanna around, only the later if Robb is sparring or training with the princes. As for you Daenerys, you will help the ladies of the court find their rooms. Oh, and if you see Arya attempting to sneak out somewhere, please prevent it and lock her in her room and tell me at once."

Both girls stared at her. "Do you really mean it?" Lyarra managed to say, her haunting purple eyes widening.

"Yes. Where are your brothers?"

"Still…still sparring in the courtyard I think."

 _Is that all boys do these days? Fight?_ Ashara nodded and with a swift swish of her skirts, she headed to the courtyard. On the way, she paused as she heard the faint clashing and shouting. Ashara peered out the closest window and smiled as she saw the boys spar with each other.

Her heart swelled with pride as she watched Robb knock Jon to the ground in triumph. Of course she loved Jon as if he was her own son, but Robb was her first son and always had a special place in her heart. Robb was not as tall as Jon and of a slightly stocky build; his violet eyes glistened with concentration as he pushed a strand of thick dark hair away, Jon rolling away from him before agilely rising and launching a new blow.

Elsewhere – still under the sharp gaze of Ser Rodrik Cassel – the Bolton heir adjusted his grip on his practice sword and moved slowly, surrounded by his two opponents: Waymar Royce and Theon Greyjoy. Ashara could not help but dislike both Waymar and Theon due to the former's overbearing conceit and the latter's cocky and vain attitude. However, she did feel slight pity for Theon; he was more a hostage than ward in Winterfell thanks to his father's foolish and rash decision to rebel against the Iron Throne nine years ago. If Robert Baratheon thought Ned could make a Stark out of Theon Greyjoy, he was wrong – not that Ned had not tried. Theon had been a good boy when he first arrived at Winterfell, but after a trip to town…he changed, and not for the better.

Unable to tug herself away from the sight, Ashara watched as Domeric knock both Waymar and Theon to the ground easily. _I am glad Lyarra will wed him_ , she thought, nodding slightly with approval. _Though he may have ancestors who had flayed innocent victims and prisoners alike, Domeric is an honourable and caring young man. I will be happy to call him my dear good-son_. She grimaced as her eyes moved back to Theon. She suspected he too fancied himself a possible suitor for Lyarra if he pleased Ned. What terrified her more was when Theon and Waymar _both_ stared at Daenerys with lustful glints.

They would not dare sleep with the mighty Lord of Winterfell's daughter, but a bastard? Would they despoil her? The sooner Waymar Royce left for the Wall, the better. It was astonishing how a son of the great Bronze Yohn Royce could harbour such…such horrid thoughts and intentions.

"Ashara? What are you doing here?"

Ashara turned around and saw Ned staring at her, puzzled. "I thought you had preparations to deal with?"

"I was distracted," she replied, smiling at him. "How can you not be distracted by our son and your wards outside?"

Ned smiled. "Robb fought well. I saw him fight when I came up here."

"Jon is a fair swordsman too. Domeric also does remarkably well – he had just defeated both Waymar and Theon singlehandedly. Roose Bolton should be proud of his son. When do you think Waymar will leave for the Wall? He is no longer a young boy who needs to settle in the North."

"Aye. Benjen will be visiting shortly – perhaps even during the royal stay – and he will take Waymar and any other volunteers back to the Wall." He darkened. "I do not like the looks he is sending our daughters…and Daenerys. I am astonished that Lord Royce has a son like him. It seems all my efforts to make him good and honourable was a waste of my time."

"Do not think that, Ned. You have tried your best and Waymar did not listen to you." Neither did Theon by the looks of it. "The sooner Waymar leaves Winterfell, the better." Ned nodded in agreement. "He is also a terrible influence on Theon," Ashara went on. "We should not have allowed them to go to winter town or any other town. I am fairly certain they go to the tavern or find a whore…or both. Will Robert ever allow Theon to leave?"

Ned shrugged, troubled. "Robert will always remember the Greyjoy Rebellion as one of his finest victories…and he does not trust the Greyjoys. I suspect only when Balon dies will Theon be allowed to return home."

"He is a bad influence on our younger children."

"In what way? Does he encourage Bran to miss his lessons? Does he attempt to convince Robb and Jon to conquer more girls?"

"I do not know. A ward he may be, but I still do not trust him."

"Ashara, Theon had been our ward for nine years. He was educated alongside our own children, he was taught swordplay with our own and he considers Robb a brother. Perhaps when the time comes, I will find a Northern bride for him – she will not be one of our daughters."

Ashara sighed with relief. "Thank the gods."

"Was that all you were concerned about, Ashara?" Ned was bemused. "I won't be able to sleep well if I wedded one of our daughters to an Ironborn. However, I do not want one of my lords burdened with that fear either. I will watch Theon a little more with care."

"From what I heard, a Northerner had never wedded an Ironborn."

"A Dornish lady hadn't married a Northerner before either." Ashara could not help but laugh. "I suppose there is a first for everything," she admitted. "Is there enough guest chambers for all the Northern lords as well? I'm already uncertain of housing all the members of the court and the royal family here. The Northern lords will want to attend the feast would they not? With them will be their wives and children and servants. There may be enough room for them in the Great Hall for the feast, but I doubt there is enough chambers to house them here." She did not add that their children and wards were already obliged to share rooms. They shared bedchambers before – their two younger children Gwenysse and Arthur were still in the nursery with baby Rickon – but were all given individual rooms at one stage, even eight year old Bran.

"They can stay at Castle Cerwyn," said Ned thoughtfully. "It's only half a day's ride from Winterfell – without a retinue that is. I'm sure Lord Cerwyn would not mind hosting other lords in his castle for a short time. I will ask Maester Luwin to send him a raven."

"When will you announce Lyarra and Domeric's betrothal? Domeric Bolton is already a young man and it would not be long before Lyarra flowers. Of course we need Lord Bolton's agreement, but he would be a fool to refuse."

"Soon. Perhaps on Lyarra's twelfth name day. The southron lords will not care for the significance of a betrothal between Lyarra and Domeric." He stopped and said quietly. "I don't want Lyarra to leave Winterfell."

Ashara gave him a puzzled look. "A mother's fear is her daughters leaving for their husbands' homes."

"I heard rumours of a bastard in the Dreadfort…Roose Bolton's bastard. The bastard had spent more time in the Dreadfort than Domeric ever had. What if a tragedy occurred there? These are the Boltons we are speaking of."

"He is still a bastard. Bastards have no claim to their fathers' titles and lands, you know that Ned." A flash of guilt appeared as she thought of Jon Snow. "Lyarra will be safe in the Dreadfort."

"As long as Roose Bolton or Domeric are there."

"We cannot keep them here forever." Ashara squeezed Ned's hand. "One day Lyarra might even go to King's Landing. She and Lyanna Baratheon had been in contact with each other for many years and the princess may want Lyarra to visit King's Landing once in a while."

Ned shuddered. "I despise King's Landing. I hope never to go there again." He considered it for a moment. "Well, Robert would expect us there for the tourney of his next name day I suppose. Perhaps the queen's too. And the crown prince's. They sent Robb a sword encrusted with jewels as a gift for his latest name day. A very kind and generous gesture. Robert and Catelyn had been sending Robb gifts on his name day since his was born." He smiled.

"They probably think of him as their son already."

"He will be soon enough when he weds Lyanna." She sighed. "Our children are growing up," she said sadly. "One day they were tiny babes like Rickon and the next they are betrothed and about to marry. Alas, that is the way of life. However, I cannot imagine Arya meekly submitting to a betrothal. We would probably have to drag her kicking and screaming to the sept or godswood. I already feel sorry for her future husband."

"Aye." Ned chuckled. "Arya will always be Arya. No matter how many dresses you force on her or make her attend sewing lessons, she will never change."

* * *

 **I've been pretty sick for the last few days (and still am sadly) so I'm a little behind in writing. In the last chapter, I know I mentioned that Stannis had 3 sons and only named 2 as the third son hadn't actually been mentioned yet.**

 **Ned and Ashara's children: Robb (fourteen), Lyarra (eleven), Arya (nine), Brandon 'Bran' (eight), Gwenysse (five), Arthur (three), Rickon (newborn) + Jon Snow (fifteen)**

 **Ned and Ashara's wards: Daenerys Sand (fifteen), Domeric Bolton (seventeen), Waymar Royce (eighteen), Theon Greyjoy (eighteen)**


	24. Eddard VIII

As the royal party's arrival grew imminently closer and preparations almost complete, Ned's mood considerably darkened when Maester Luwin told him the grave news. "Your men have captured a deserter of the Wall, my lord."

Ashara was with him when he was informed. "A deserter!" she had exclaimed, astonishment etched on her face.

Ned had said quietly. "Tell the lads the news and to be prepared. We will leave on the morrow at dawn. Deserters are rare and it's time they witness how justice is done in the North. Bran will accompany us."

"Bran! He is only a boy! _Of eight!_ "

"He is a Stark of the North. He must know the Northern ways." Before Ashara could respond, he swiftly left for the solitude of the godswood. That night, he had tossed and turned on his bed. It wasn't long before dawn came. Bleary-eyed, Ned met the party of twenty one – including his three wards, Robb, Jon and Bran – at the gate before riding to the small holdfast in the hills. Awaiting them was an old and scrawny man bound hand and foot to the holdfast wall. Ned rode closer and noted he had lost both ears and a finger, no doubt to frostbite, and his black furs were ragged and greasy.

Ned nodded at Jory. "Cut him down."

A faint wind slipped through the holdfast gate and forced the Stark banners over their heads to flap to its wishes. The deserter was cut down and dragged in front of them. Ned looked down at him. "What is your name?"

"Gared m'lord," the deserter replied, his eyes wild with madness or terror.

"Were you aware the penalty of desertion is death?"

"Aye m'lord."

"Why did you run?"

Gared did not answer. "Why did you run?" Ned repeated.

Still no reply. As Ned was about to dismount, the deserter began muttering. "It has come," he gabbled rapidly. "It has come! The others…"

Ned frowned. "There are more deserters?"

"I saw them…the others…they are coming…"

Ned's frown deepened. "If there are more deserters, I can assure you none of them will get away without punishment. Do you know how many more deserters there will be?" He reminded himself to send a raven to the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch to tighten security at the Wall.

"There were at least five…there are more! THERE WILL ALWAYS BE MORE OF _THEM_ THAN US!"

Ned glanced at his wards and sons. Wedged between Jon and Robb and sitting on a pony, Bran had flinched at the deserter's ravings. Ned looked at Jory and one of the other guards and nodded. Wordlessly, the two men dragged Gared to the ironwood stump in the centre of the square and forced his head down onto the hard black wood. Ned descended from his horse and it was Domeric Bolton who brought forth Ice. Ned peeled his off his gloves and gave them to Jory.

Both hands gripping Ice, Ned murmured. "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and the Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die." He raised the greatsword and brought it down, swiping off the deserter's head with one single stroke.

As blood sprayed onto the sheets of snow, Gared's head rolled near Theon and Waymar's feet. Theon kicked it as Waymar snickered. Jon frowned at them and muttered something that sounded like, "Ass", before speaking softly to Bran. Ned looked at the head again. "Wrap it up and send it to the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," he ordered.

The lads began riding back to Winterfell as he waited for a few of his men to wrap Gared's head in fur. He slowly rode back, deep in thought. The deserter was clearly mad. _I doubt there will be many deserters_ , Ned thought to himself. _In any case, Mormont must be informed_. Lord Commander Qorgyle had died ten years ago and Jeor Mormont had been elected the Lord Commander.

"Is it true my lord?" asked Jory. "Will there be more deserters?"

"The man was mad," said Ned flatly. "Whatever caused him to desert his post at the Wall must've sent him into the hands of madness. What he said should not be believed or taken seriously."

"As you say my lord."

"However, there may be seeds of truth in what he said. I will send a raven to Lord Commander Mormont and another to Lord Umber to tell him to strengthen his guard and keep a closer eye out for deserters and wildings. For all we know, the deserter could've been referring to wildlings in his delusional state. Wildlings have become bolder lately." A few Northern lords had informed him of wildling sightings in the last few years.

"Do you wish me to strengthen the household guard my lord?"

"Not yet Jory. Perhaps later."

"Yes my lord." Ned briefly glanced at him and felt a twinge of sadness as he remembered his father Martyn. Why must I think of that day now? Shaking away the cloud of gloom, Ned spurred his horse forward to Bran's side. Jon and Robb had both already raced off. "Are you well?" he inquired.

Bran was quiet for a moment before he tentatively nodded.

"Do you understand why I had to execute him?"

Bran nodded again. "He was a deserter. He ran away from the Wall."

"Do you know why _I_ had to behead him? We do not have an executioner like the king does in the south."

"We are Northmen. The one who passes the sentence swings the sword."

Ned nodded and ruffled his thick dark hair. "Good. One day when you grow up, you will have a keep of your own and be one of Robb's bannermen, you will have to maintain justice in your land too. It is unpleasant, but we Northmen are strong. We do not hide behind our mothers' skirts when it comes to punishing those who have committed wrong deeds."

"Must they all end in deaths?"

Before Ned could answer, Jon reappeared, his face lit with unusual excitement as he waved at them. "Father! Bran! Come quickly and see what Robb found!" He was gone again in a second.

With a slight shrug, Ned followed, Bran and the others behind him.

On the riverbank north of the bridge, Robb stood knee deep in snow, a grin on his face as he cradled something in his arm. Ned made his way carefully through the drifts but before he could approach Robb, Jory had his sword drawn and had blocked him with his own body and horse. "Robb! Get away form it!" he shouted, brandishing his sword.

Robb's grin only broadened. "She's dead Jory," he called back. "She had been dead for some time. She won't be able to hurt you." Ned pushed his way forward and almost gasped as Bran did. Half-buried in bloodstained snow, a huge dark shape slumped in death, its blank eyes crawling with dozens of maggots and ice on its shaggy grey fur. The beast was huge; bigger than Bran's pony and twice the size of the largest hound in the kennels at Winterfell. Staring at it, Ned could not believe his eyes as he recognised it at once.

A direwolf.

"What is that creature?" one of Ned's men exclaimed in fascination.

"A direwolf," said Jon calmly. "They grow larger than ordinary wolves."

Theon laughed. "There's not been a direwolf sighted south of the Wall in two hundred years Snow."

Jon glowered at him. "I see one now."

As Theon retorted, Ned heard a cry of delight and thrill uttered from Bran who had noticed the bundle in Robb's arms. Ned looked closer and saw it was a tiny ball of grey-black fur with its eyes closed.

A direwolf pup.

"There are more," said Jon, putting another pup in Robb's arms. "Here. You can touch one." He gently placed one in Bran's arms. "There are seven of them. Seven direwolf pups in the litter."

The men murmured amongst themselves as Ned dismounted his horse and knelt in the snow, groping under the dead direwolf's head. He yanked out a foot of shattered antler, its tines snapped off, all wet with blood. All the men looked at it uneasily. Ned tossed it to the side and wiped his hand in the snow.

"What do we do with the pups?" Jory asked.

"Kill them." Domeric suddenly appeared at Jory's side. "We kill them," he said again in a calm voice as Jory almost jumped with shock.

"No!" cried Bran in anguish.

"Domeric is right," Ned found himself saying. "If we leave them out here in the cold, they will die. We might as well give them quick deaths."

Domeric had his sword drawn. "Give one to me Bran. I will give him a quick and merciful death."

"As opposed to flaying?" japed Theon.

The heir of the Dreadfort turned slowly and stared at him icily. "As opposed to drowning perhaps?" he said coldly. "Or any other cruel method of killing enjoyed by the Ironborn? Will you take one of those pups and drown it in the cold river we passed? Or would you rather strangle him to death?"

Theon shot him a scowl. "At least I won't flay the poor pup."

Domeric pulled a pup from Bran's arms, ignoring his cries. "You should turn away," he advised Bran.

"Wait!"

Everyone's eyes swivelled to Jon. "Lord Stark," said Jon cautiously. Ned was surprised. He hardly ever called him that. It had always been 'father'. "There are seven pups," Jon told him. "Four males, three females."

"What of it, Jon?"

"You have seven trueborn children," Jon pointed out. "Four sons and three daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups my lord."

Ned's expression changed. _Jon is right_ , he mused. _Four sons, three daughters. There are indeed four male pups and three female_. He frowned slightly. "What of you yourself, Jon?" he said softly. "Do you not want a pup?"

Jon shook his head. "The direwolf graces the banners of House Stark. I am no Stark, Father. I am a Snow."

 _You are not a Snow!_ Ned wanted to shout so badly. _You are a Stark! Do you hear me? A STARK!_

Sensing his silence, Robb rushed in. "I will feed him myself. And bathe him and look after him Father."

Bran gave him a pleading look.

Ned sighed deeply. "Easy to say, and harder to do. I will not have you wasting the servants' time with this. If you want these pups, you'll feed them yourselves. Is that understood?"

Robb and Bran nodded eagerly.

"You must train them as well," said Ned, glancing at the pups and then back at his sons. "The kennelmaster will have nothing to do with these beasts, I promise you that. And the gods help you if you neglect them, or brutalise them, or train them badly. These are not dogs to beg for treats and slink off at a kick. A direwolf will rip a man's arm off his shoulder as easily as a dog will kill a rat." He stared at his sons gravely. "And if they die, you will bury them yourselves. If they do, you will not weep and cry to me about it – especially if you mistreated and neglected them to death." He paused. "A few of you will have to help the younger children with their pups too. Are you sure you want this?"

* * *

Avoiding the stares of the Winterfell servants, Ned sought quiet refuge in the godswood and began cleaning Ice's blade.

"Imagine my surprise when I saw the boys come through the doors, each with a ball of fur in their arms."

Ned could not help but smile as Ashara entered the godswood. "Robb and Jon found direwolf pups," he explained.

Ashara's eyes widened. " _Direwolf_ pups?"

"Aye. Don't fear Ashara. The children will look after the pups themselves. Both Robb and Bran promised."

"Who will grow faster, a pup or Rickon? I can't believe you even brought a pup back for _Rickon_. He is a babe! What is he to do with one? I'm more afraid the pup will grow up fast and eat him for supper."

"That will not happen. Robb will take care of it until Rickon is old enough to raise a direwolf by himself. The children seem happy with them. Did Robb, Jon and Bran distribute the pups yet?"

"Yes. I saw Domeric take one to Lyarra's chambers." She smiled. "It was quite sweet of him don't you think?"

Ned did not have the heart to tell her it was Domeric who suggested killing the pups out of mercy. "Very," he agreed. "I thought giving Arya a direwolf would aid her in understanding responsibility, but I doubt she will. It's astonishing that we would find direwolf pups today. Jon said as a direwolf was the sigil of our House, we should keep them. Others wanted to kill the pups."

"Does Jon have a pup too?"

"He found an albino one – the runt of the litter." _How fitting for my bastard_. It ached him to think of Jon as one.

Ashara nodded. "It's quite fitting as he's a Stark too." She quietened and said. "I know I should have told you this earlier, but I plan to leave for the south with the royal party after their stay." Ned jerked his head up and looked at her in surprise and bewilderment. "It is not you," she assured him quickly. "It is not Winterfell or anyone here either. I received a letter from Allyria and it consisted of news that may need me to return to Starfall…for a short time. My brother died and his son is still a squire in Blackhaven. Allyria asks if I could take care of matters as she is certain Lord Dondarrion plans to wed her soon."

"How long will you be gone?"

"I don't know." She sighed. "A few months? Once the matters at Starfall have settled down, I will return. As your wife I belong here at Winterfell; as a loyal and good sister and aunt, it is my duty to help out at Starfall."

"I understand. Have you packed?"

"Not yet. I intend to shortly. Promise me something Ned."

 _Promise me Ned._

"Anything," said Ned at once.

Ashara gazed at him with her hauntingly beautiful purple eyes. "Don't wed off our children when I am gone."

* * *

A host of black brothers arrived in the late afternoon. Ned recognised none of them by sight. One of them said. "Lord Stark, we are here for recruits."

It was time for Waymar to leave. Ned suspected Ashara would be delighted. "If you will follow me," said Ned, gesturing for them to ride through the gate. "Lord Royce had wanted his youngest son Waymar to join the Night's Watch. Waymar had been my ward for some time and he is no longer a child. I suppose it is time for him to leave for the Wall."

The black brothers nodded solemnly.

Ned led them to the courtyard where the boys were training. All sweaty and coated in dirt, Waymar was sparring against Jon. Rapt in their fight, neither of the boys noticed the black brothers and Ned's presence. After about five minutes, Jon knocked Waymar to the ground.

"Quite a splendid performance," said a black brother dryly. Jon looked at them, startled. "We need young men like you at the Wall."

"Waymar," said Ned swiftly. "Do you wish to continue in your father's wishes and join the Night's Watch? Your education is at an end and you've trained well here at Winterfell. There is no embarrassment if you decide not to be a man of the Night's Watch."

Waymar stood up and raised his head proudly. "I will honour my lord father's wishes and continue in that path."

Ned nodded. "Very well then. We'll give you a moment alone with your future brothers then." Jon followed him away as the brothers of the Night's Watch drew closer to Waymar Royce.

"I suppose I will knight him before he leaves," Ned remarked. "That was what Lord Yohn wanted I believe." He looked at Jon and smiled. "You fought quite well today my son. I am proud of you."

Jon nodded. "I hope to fight better each day," he said, his dark eyes glittering with determination, "even now I have a pup to train."

"Good." He paused. "I hope you do not think I love you less than any of your sisters and brothers because…"

"Because Lady Stark is not my mother? She treats me as if I'm her own son. I am fortunate she is caring and understanding. Not many highborn ladies will be willing to treat their husbands' bastards as kindly as Lady Ashara." He smiled. "I do wonder about my birth mother from time to time, but I know you will tell me about her when you think I am ready."

Ned nodded. "You are my blood, Jon. By the old gods and new, I'd do anything to give you the Stark name."

"Why not? King Robert is your friend isn't he?"

"It is the queen who will not allow it." _And for good reason too_ , he thought. _The last thing Catelyn Tully wants is more Baratheons – legitimised ones_. Ned doubted Stannis and Renly wanted that either.

Jon nodded. They trudged silently towards the Great Hall. "I have considered joining the Night's Watch," he said suddenly. Ned froze in his steps.

"You have?" he said, maintaining calmness.

"Yes. I am a bastard and I cannot inherit and will always be looked down upon because of my name."

"You will father no children."

Jon smiled wryly. "After hearing Theon and Waymar's stories of their certain adventures in town, I rather not go around making children in a hurry. Moreover, I do not want to have more Snows. Being a bastard is nothing, but giving a wife and children my bastard name…" He shook his head. "I do not want that. Maybe the Wall is the only place left for me."

"There will always be a place for you at Winterfell Jon. Do not make any rash choices you will soon regret. Think about them carefully. By the end of the week, if you still desire to take the black, I will not stop you. I will accompany you to the Wall myself. It is up to you. Robb will miss your company, as will Arya and your other sisters and brothers. Even Dany will miss you."

Jon nodded expressionlessly. "I will miss them – and you – too, but I will think it an honour to serve in the Night's Watch."

"Even with thieves and murderers as your new brothers?" It felt too much like convincing Benjen not to go and man the Wall.

Jon smiled again. "Those black brothers said they need young men like me to serve at the Wall." He jerked his head in the direction of the courtyard. "If I join the Night's Watch, I will no longer be a bastard of the North. I will have a chance to rise in the ranks like any man regardless of blood." His grin broadened. "I will also have another opportunity to kick Waymar's ass."

* * *

 **Shamefully I had forgotten about the Starks and the direwolves hahaha. One of my favourite scenes in the TV show was when Jon lifted his albino pup from the ground :D As for Matysse Martell, I was uncertain about titling her either as Lady or Princess. To my understanding, the ruler of Dorne and his children are titled 'prince' and 'princess', but what of say a Martell whose grandfather or great grandfather was a ruling Prince or Princess of Dorne? Suggestions for direwolf names are definitely welcomed! :)**

 **In case you are confused or wondering, I deliberately wrote 'others' without the capital 'O' as Ned would not believe the Others are coming back or something. I'll be leaving for home tomorrow (Australia) and I hope to update quickly when I settle back into a usual routine.**


	25. Cersei II

Cersei glowered at the half-embroidered piece of cloth on her lap, the chatter of her ladies merely irritating background noise.

For months upon end, she had been exiled to Storm's End with only a few of her ladies for company – and the presence of her children of course. _Thank the gods Renly is not here_ , thought Cersei, tugging a strand of her golden hair. She'd wanted nothing more than to throw the cloth against the wall. Stannis Baratheon was an adequate husband; Renly Baratheon was an irritating child.

"Mother, is something amiss?"

Cersei forced herself to smile as her nine year old daughter Cassana looked at her with innocent concern. "Nothing, dear one," she answered, gently caressing her daughter's long lustrous locks of black hair. Cassana was Steffon's twin sister and already very beautiful. _All my children are beautiful_. She frowned slightly. _All but one_. "Do you miss court?" asked Cersei.

Cassana shrugged, her blue eyes as lovely as sapphires strung around Catelyn Tully's neck. "I am content here," she responded to Cersei's annoyance. "I wish…I want Steffon and Robert to come home."

"Robert will remain in King's Landing as Ser Barristan the Bold's page," Cersei reminded her. "It is a prestigious honour Cassana."

"Oh yes. I forgot." Cassana blushed prettily.

"Your grandfather desires to see you and your siblings soon."

"Again, Mother?"

Cersei frowned at her. "Yes again. Once Steffon returns here, we will all leave for Casterly Rock." Cassana dutifully nodded. Cersei stabbed her needle into the linen cloth. _I should be at court, not here nor Casterly Rock. Next time Stannis plans to return, I will insist he take me back to court_. "Your grandfather is a busy man," Cersei added. "You should be pleased – no, honoured – that he wants to see you all again. How many grandfathers are willing to spend time with their grandsons and granddaughters these days?"

"Grandfather frightens me," Cassana confessed. "He thinks I am too small for my age – always."

"Good," said Cersei crisply. "Your grandfather frightens many people and you should be frightened of him. People follow him because they fear him. That is not important. You are a highborn lady and you will not be leading men anywhere. I suspect your grandfather plans to find you and Myrcella powerful and influential husbands." She smiled. "That will be kind of him, will it not? If you were not the king's niece, I believe your grandfather would manage to have you married to the crown prince himself!"

"What of Shireen?"

Cersei looked at her coldly. "She will stay here. Your grandfather doesn't want to see her. Shireen should count herself fortunate she was not sent away, killed or exiled to Dragonstone." When Shireen was born, Cersei loved her and would do anything to protect her from harm. It all changed when Shireen contracted the deadly greyscale…and survived with half of her left cheek and most of her neck covered in cracked and flaking grey and black skin which was said to be stony to the touch. After Shireen recovered, Cersei could not bring herself to hold or hug her eldest daughter again.

"It'll be best if you stay away from her," Cersei added. "Your grandfather will be most displeased if you do."

"Shireen is always sad," Cassana pressed on to her chagrin. "Maybe she will be happier if she is here with us."

Shireen was here with them – only confined to her own quarters. It would be an utter embarrassment if Cersei allowed her to sit amongst her company. In fact, it was Stannis who insisted for Shireen to remain at Storm's End rather than to be shipped off to Dragonstone. _Odd_ , Cersei mused. _Stannis shows more affection towards his greyscale afflicted daughter than to anyone else alive, except perhaps for that Onion Knight he is ever so fond of_. "Shireen cannot leave her rooms," said Cersei stiffly. "You know perfectly well why she cannot."

Cassana nodded unhappily and returned to her embroidery. Cersei glanced at her younger daughter Myrcella's sewing. "Very nice Myrcella." The four year old beamed. Unlike Shireen, Steffon, Cassana and Robert, Myrcella inherited more of the Lannister look which satisfied Cersei and Tywin Lannister, the latter fearing none of his Baratheon grandchildren obtained Lannister looks. Myrcella would pass off as a Lannister with her curly golden hair and green eyes.

Cersei's only other child with prominent Lannister features was her youngest, two year old Tommen. When Robert was born, Cersei had wanted to name him Joffrey, a name she always imagined one of her sons to have. Even when she was almost betrothed to Rhaegar, she dreamed she would have a brood of sons, one of which who would be Joffrey Targaryen. However, Stannis refused to have one of his sons named Joffrey.

"What kind of name is that?" he had said, almost disgusted. "You want our son to be called Joffrey Baratheon? No. I rather name him after my brother than give him _that_ name." When he acceded to his youngest son to be called Tommen, he'd grumbled, "A weak name for a weak boy." Pleasing Stannis Baratheon was a task no one desired to take.

Tired of being confined in a small, stifling room and listening to bland gossip, Cersei left for a walk in the godswood. She never cared for the heart tree or any tree or flower in the godswood but she was bored of walking on the battlements and in the massive drum tower. Cersei wandered into the godswood, thinking of her wedding night. After plenty of practice with Jaime, she was not afraid of the deed itself; it was Stannis who frightened her.

Before they consummated their union, Stannis had argued with King Robert, the latter calling for the traditional bedding. Stannis refused and was grinding his teeth in anger when the time came to bed her. Cersei attempted to bring a smile to his face by striking a seductive pose in bed; it did not work. All Stannis did was stare at her in disgust. "You aren't a whore," he had said flatly, removing his shirt and unbuckling his belt. Silently, he kicked off his shoes, followed by his trousers. Before Cersei could protest or say anything, he had flipped her onto her stomach and straddled her as if she was a horse.

Whilst Stannis pumped his seed into her wordlessly, Cersei compared him to Jaime. Jaime would never take her from behind. "I want to see your pretty face," he would say. "I want to see your beautiful face glow like the sun…" After Stannis came, he dismounted from her and instantly went to sleep, leaving her to deal with the sticky mess herself. It happened every night until she found herself with child. Fortunately once Stannis was told the news, he never entered her chamber again – until after the child (Shireen) was born.

As a lover, Stannis was more than unsatisfactory. As a husband, he was often absent and when he did visit Cersei, it usually ended in a night of unpassionate and unsatisfactory lovemaking – in Cersei's part that was. From time to time, she would be frustrated to wit's end and pleasure herself which she learnt as a young girl in Casterly Rock from spying upon maids with loose morals. Her fingers had not pleasured her as much as Jaime's cock, but it was better than naught.

Thinking of Jaime's large, long cock made Cersei smile and desire him more than ever. _I need him to complete me. I need him so bad…_ It was a pity Jaime was forced to trudge with the king and his other sworn brothers to Winterfell. If he's still at the Red Keep, it might be easier to see him. Cersei sighed. The sooner King Robert and his court returned the better.

"Patches! Patches!"

Cersei froze.

She frowned as she caught sight of the court fool and jester running through the godswood, muttering loudly under his breath. Patchface, he was called, due to the pattern of green and red squared tattoos covering his broad face and bald head. Soft and obese, the jester stopped and did a small and odd sideways dance before running off. Cersei's frown deepened as she saw Shireen chase after him, her dark green skirts slightly damp from the wet grass. _Disobedient child_ , Cersei cursed inwardly. _You should've been sent away all those years ago! If I'd had my way, you would've disappeared from my life. The last thing I want or need is you embarrassing me more than ever._ She strode swiftly after Shireen, grabbing her shoulder. Shireen uttered a squeak in shock.

"What did I tell you?" snarled Cersei. "You are to stay in your rooms, not to go running around after Storm's End's fool!"

"I am bored, Mother," said the frightened girl sincerely. "Patches wanted me to play with him and-"

"Play? Are you a child?" She greatly wanted to slap her cheek…only to stop as she saw Shireen's disfigured cheek.

Shireen stared at her with her blue eyes. "I am bored, Mother."

 _Don't you dare call me your mother!_ "Go and read!" Cersei snapped. "Sew like a lady of good birth! Don't leave your chambers again! If you do, I'll have no choice but to punish you for your disobedience!"

Shireen lowered her eyes. "Yes, Lady Mother." She turned and walked towards the castle. Irritated, Cersei continued her stroll through the godswood. The gods had cursed her with not one deformed creature but two. First was Tyrion whose birth killed their mother; now there was Shireen whose mere existence mortified her. What had she done to anger the Seven to deserve a disfigured daughter and a deformed brother? She shuddered. Tyrion was a dwarf; he did not deserve the Lannister name. Father was too weak to throw that dwarf into the sea. _If I was in his position, I would've thrown him to his death without a thought._

It still remained a mystery why the great Lord Tywin Lannister would keep a dwarf in the family. There was nothing special about Tyrion. He could not wield a sword like Jaime and no one would wed a dwarf no matter his family name. All Tyrion did all day was drink and whore – hopefully to an early grave.

* * *

Groggy-eyed, Cersei stood in Stannis's solar a few hours after dawn as Davos Seaworth bowed, three children beside him, one of whom Cersei recognised at once as Steffon. "What is going on, Ser Davos?" Cersei inquired, stifling a yawn. "I thought Steffon would come home later."

"Plans have changed, milady," answered the Onion Knight. "Lord Baratheon had ordered me to bring his heir back to Storm's End early for reasons he'd not told me. He also instructed me to bring his two wards, Lord Robert Arryn and his sister Lady Alyssa Arryn."

Cersei glanced at the two Arryns. The boy looked weak and ill, the girl a little tired but bonnier. "Stannis does not take wards," said Cersei bluntly. "You must have misheard him, Onion Knight."

Davos Seaworth shook his head. "No milady. Milord Baratheon told me to sail to Storm's End with Lord Steffon, Lord Robert and Lady Alyssa. Here." He handed her a sealed letter. "A message from Lord Baratheon milady." Cersei looked at it and then turned to the children. "I suppose they have to stay here," she said with a sigh. "Keep them away from _her_ chambers. I will see them in the morning when we break our fast." She opened the letter, astonished Stannis would write to her at all. Usually his orders were communicated to her through the Onion Knight a few minutes after his arrival.

"Cersei," read Cersei softly, rolling her eyes. Stannis did not even call her his dearest wife or his sweetheart. Then again, he was a blunt man. "There is now an alliance between Houses Baratheon of Storm's End and House Arryn. I've agreed to foster Jon Arryn's heir and his daughter the Lady Alyssa is affianced to Steffon, hence her presence at Storm's End. Take care of them. Stannis."

Short and to the point.

Typical of Stannis.

Cersei sighed again and went back to her room, hoping to catch another hour or two of sleep. Mothering two wards was not what she wanted. _At least my lord father will be pleased with his grandson's match: a daughter of the King's Hand and the king's niece._ An excellent choice of bride for the old Lion of Lannister's grandson. Cersei drifted off to sleep. In the morning, she was greeted by Maester Jurne who held a letter for her. When she read it, her heart skipped a beat.

 _You are required at court. Prepare to leave._

* * *

Stannis greeted her stoically once she was at the door of her rooms. "You've arrived just in time," he informed her. "The funeral was about to start."

Funeral?

"Of course," said Cersei casually. "The funeral."

Her husband looked at her and said wryly. "Do you even know whose funeral it is, my lady?"

Cersei flushed. "Does it matter?"

Stannis's eyebrows rose. "Change your gown," he ordered. "It is unfitting for you to attend the funeral in scarlet." He wrinkled his nose. "Be ready to go to the Great Sept of Baelor in half an hour. Look presentable." He stalked off. As Cersei entered her chambers, she caught sight of one of Stannis's squires about to leave. What was his name? Devan? Or was it Maric?

"You!" she snapped at him. "What is going on?"

"There has been a death my lady!" said the squire at once.

"I am aware of that! Whose death?"

"The King's Hand my lady! Lord Arryn has died over a week ago! After he died, Lord Baratheon sent ravens to all the great lords and His Grace to inform them of the news. He decreed that Lord Arryn's funeral will be held today to give the Vale lords time to travel to King's Landing. Lord Baratheon said after the funeral Lord Arryn's body will be sent to the Eyrie for burial, but the Vale lords may still want to pay their respects to their recently deceased lord here. Ser Edmure Tully has come to represent his sister who was said to be too upset to travel here." A look of horror appeared on the squire's expression. He clearly said too much. Cersei dismissed him with a wave of her hand.

 _So…_ she thought. _Jon Arryn is dead…Stannis's new ward is now the Lord of the Eyrie with foolish Lysa Arryn as his regent_. She laughed aloud. Life had been dull for years – even at court. Now with a child lord of a Great House in power…surely something exciting would occur!

Cersei quickly found herself a suitable gown before meeting up with Stannis who did not comment about her change of dress. "Come," he said, striding to the Great Sept of Baelor. "The Vale lords are already there and waiting."

"Why must we be there?" Cersei grumbled.

Stannis glared at her. "Do you have any ounce of respect for any lord or lady apart from yourself and your father's House, my lady? The late Hand of the King had done many good deeds for the Seven Kingdoms and died in office. Besides, I am now the guardian of his son and with the king still in the North, I am obliged to represent him now."

The doors swung open and Stannis walked in, Cersei beside him. She glanced around. It was crowded with Vale lords and their large retinues. Standing closest to the altar was a massive, barrel-chested bald man with a greying beard cloaked in a bronze cape bordered with runes and decorated with onyx studs. Beside him was an old woman with greying hair, loose skin beneath her chin and crows-feet around her eyes. On her arm was a black mantle. She reminded Cersei of an old crone yet with a distinct air of nobility. They noticed Stannis and nodded politely at him as did the other lords present.

"Lord Nestor Royce," acknowledged Stannis. "Lady Waynwood."

"I served him faithfully as High Steward of the Vale for fourteen years," Nestor Royce murmured, glancing forlornly at Jon Arryn's body. "Never have I served such a fine lord before. Once you sent the raven, Lord Baratheon, I left the Vale for the first time in years to come and pay my respects to Lord Arryn. It is still hard to believe he has died!"

Lady Waynwood nodded in agreement. "It is a shock," affirmed Stannis. "The king could not have maintained peace in the Seven Kingdoms without him." He looked at Jon Arryn and sighed. "His remains will be sent to the Vale shortly," he told Lord Nestor and Lady Waynwood. "The king may wish to visit and see Lord Arryn's body when he returns."

Lord Nestor nodded. His eyes fell upon Cersei. "My lady, you are-?"

Cersei lifted her head proudly. "Lady Cersei Lannister my lord."

" _Baratheon_ ," Stannis automatically corrected. "Lady Cersei Baratheon."

"Lord Tywin's daughter," remarked Lady Waynwood, "and your lady wife my lord. I remember your wedding. A magnificent event was it not? My gift to you was a set of two candles."

Cersei and Stannis had received many candles as gifts and Cersei had more or less forgotten the givers an hour after receiving them. "I remember," said Stannis, nodding at Lady Waynwood. "Very useful gifts too."

Lady Waynwood smiled. "This may be an inappropriate time to ask, my lord Baratheon, but to soothe an old woman's fears and worries, when will the young Lord Arryn return to the Eyrie? We must swear fealty to him and the young lord must be familiar with the region he is to rule when of age. Lord Royce" – she gave a nod in the direction of a tall man in bronze armour – "had hoped to escort our little lord to the Eyrie after we pay our respects to the late Lord Arryn."

Stannis's lips were drawn in a tight line. "I am afraid Lord Robert Arryn will remain in my custody until I think he is ready to leave for the Eyrie. You must all be aware that the late Lord Arryn asked me to foster his son before his death and I intend to raise him to be a just lord."

"Lord Robert is of the Vale," argued Lord Nestor.

"King Robert was of the Stormlands before he was sent to be the late Lord Jon Arryn's ward," Stannis pointed out. "Even when our parents died and he became the Lord of Storm's End, he remained at the Eyrie."

Lady Waynwood looked at Nestor Royce helplessly.

"At least allow the young lord to visit the Vale from time to time!" Lord Nestor exclaimed. "He will rule the Vale soon!"

"Very well," conceded Stannis grudgingly.

"What of Lord Jon Arryn's daughters?" asked Lady Waynwood. "If Lord Robert is to remain at Storm's End, what of his sisters Lady Sansa and Lady Alyssa? Will they return to the Eyrie to join their lady mother? Lady Arryn is deep in grief but once she recovers, she will surely be ready to care for her daughters and rule the Vale as regent for her son." She did not sound certain.

"Lady Alyssa Arryn is also my ward," Stannis informed her. "The late Lord Jon Arryn desired for her to wed my heir Steffon."

Lord Nestor frowned. "Indeed? What of Lady Sansa? Lord Baratheon, by any chance is she your ward too?"

"No," snorted Stannis. "Two wards is enough for me. However, Lord Jon Arryn wrote a will before his death. He addressed it to the High Steward of the Vale and his lady wife. Lord Nestor, you are the High Steward are you not?" He thrusted a letter at him. Cersei suppressed a sigh. What could possibly be more boring than this? Hurry up Jaime; for the love you bear me, return quicker.

"I will have another copy made," decided Lord Nestor. "Has the king been told of his Hand's death?"

Stannis nodded grimly. "There is naught we can do right now but wait."

* * *

 **I was jabbed with writer's block throughout this chapter and it probably isn't that great, but on the bright side, I had no trouble writing the next chapter :) Reading through the reviews, I agree that I added way too many kids and wards than necessary (I was caught in the excitement of creating AU noble families hahaha) so I'll try to fix it up and make them feel more characteristically realistic or something. Anyway, I know Cersei loves her children, but I cannot imagine her treating greyscale-afflicted Shireen with as much love as say her other children.**

 **Stannis and Cersei's children: Shireen (11 years old), Steffon (9 years old), Cassana (9 years old), Robert (7 years old), Myrcella (4 years old) and Tommen (2 years old).**


	26. Daenerys I

The sun bore down on her as she waited in the courtyard for the royal party to be sighted. Standing behind the tall Ser Rodrik Cassel, Daenerys Sand could not see anything. She stood on her toes and craned her neck…

Still nothing.

"I see them! I see them!" The excited shouts of Arthur Stark pierced the cold afternoon air followed by the sound of clashing armour and pattering feet. Dany smiled. She did not need to see to imagine her uncle Eddard's penultimate son toddling towards him in the boy-sized suit of armour made for him as a present on his recent third name day. Ever since Aunt Ashara told Arthur the tale of her famous brother (and his namesake) Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, little Arthur wanted naught more than to be a knight of the Kingsguard.

Daenerys pulled a stray strand of her silver-blonde hair behind her ear as the wind whistled in her direction. "When I attended tourneys in my youth, the more daring young knights would whistle insolently at me," Ashara once told her. "Ser Barristan explained they did so because of my looks. You are beautiful, Dany. If you go to tourneys, those knights will whistle at you too. However here in the North, only the wind will whistle at you." Dany did not think herself pretty in the slightest. She once thought her violet eyes and silver-blonde hair two distinctive assets…until she learnt it was just a trait inherited from her father's noble family, House Dayne. As her thoughts drifted, she felt a sharp nudge.

Standing beside her, Jon Snow silently nodded at the wooden box at her feet. Dany rolled her eyes as he grinned. Theon Greyjoy, had placed the small wooden box there as a jape regarding her short stature. "Stand on it so those southron lords can see your beauty," he had said with a smirk. She thought it a compliment before he went on, "Once they see you, they'll all want to fuck you!" He strolled off to the front of the waiting party, leaving a shocked Dany behind.

Sorely tempted to stand on the box, Dany almost let out a sigh of relief as Ser Rodrik shifted slightly, giving her a partial view of the royal cavalcade coming to view. Waiting nearest to the great gates were her uncle and aunt, Lord and Lady Stark, and their trueborn children – all seven of them, including baby Rickon who slept comfortably in Wylla's arms. Standing on Uncle Ned's right was Robb. A year younger than Dany herself, he was already taller than her by a head. With a mop of thick dark hair and brilliant purple eyes, he proved to be the result of love between Eddard Stark of Winterfell and Ashara Dayne of Starfall. _It is a pity he is betrothed to Princess Lyanna Baratheon_ , mused Dany, as she watched Robb mutter into his father's ear. _At least half a dozen maidens in the North are in love with him_. Robb was always courteous, kind, witty, honourable…what was there about him not to love?

Next to Robb was Bran, a sweet boy of eight. As he was of the same age as King Robert's younger son, it was decided for both Bran and the prince to be fostered together at court as wards of the King's Hand, Lord Jon Arryn, an old man who had fostered the king and Uncle Eddard when they were both children. _He must be as old as time_ , Daenerys thought. Glancing at Bran, she knew at once that he itched to escape and run and climb the walls of Winterfell. Before she could turn her attention to little Arthur, someone shouted, "They are here!"

On cue, Daenerys sunk to her knees as the stone ground trembled under the heavy weight of the thundering hooves of about hundreds of horses. Raising her eyes a little, she spotted the double-decked carriage of oiled oak and gilded metal open outside the gates and a flurry of highborn ladies stepping out in a range of silks from black to sky blue and enter on foot. A sturdy dark brown horse trotted in view. Daenerys's mouth dropped open as she saw its huge rider dismount and raise Uncle Eddard into a tight hug.

No…

It can't be.

That fat man was _the_ Robert Baratheon her uncle recalled fondly in his many wartime stories? Daenerys quickly closed her gaping mouth as she heard Uncle Eddard say, "Your Grace. Winterfell is yours."

By then, a tall, smiling woman wrapped in furs and silks of black and gold with long waves of auburn hair braided in a southron hairstyle appeared at Robert's side. _She must be his queen, Catelyn Tully of Riverrun_. Uncle Eddard kissed her fair hand as Robert embraced Aunt Ashara warmly. Daenerys felt envious as Robert and his queen turned to her trueborn cousins.

The king chuckled as he had a long look at Robb. "You must be Robb," he said with a broad grin. "Aye, I remember you from my last visit. You were about six eh, and kept asking me about my war hammer!" He wiggled his thick finger at him as he guffawed. "You even wanted to hold it! I will be proud to have you as my son once you wed Lyanna."

Queen Catelyn nodded in agreement. "You'll be a soldier!" the king declared as he looked down at Bran. "I heard you'll return with us south to be fostered with Ormund under Jon Arryn. What say you to be a page for Barristan the Bold or the Blackfish?" Bran's eyes grew as wide as dishes. The king chuckled.

"I want to be a knight too!" piped Arthur, brandishing his wooden sword. Dany stifled her laughter as Uncle Eddard groaned. Dany glanced around and saw Jon and a few white knights of the Kingsguard hide their smiles too.

"Eh?" King Robert Baratheon smiled indulgently at the three year old. "And who might you be?"

"Arthur Stark!" came the enthusiastic reply.

The king's smile froze as he slowly looked at Aunt Ashara. "He was my eldest brother," Daenerys's aunt said quietly. "I loved him and waited for him. All that was returned to me was his sword."

"Of course," said the king in a stiff tone.

"Can I be a knight like Bran?" said Arthur hopefully.

"When you are old enough sweetling," said the queen swiftly. "I'm sure one day you will be a great knight of the Seven Kingdoms." The king ruffled Arthur's light brown hair absently as he with the queen turned to no doubt compliment Uncle Eddard and Aunt Ashara's comely daughters.

Daenerys almost huffed with jealousy as the king paused in front of beautiful Lyarra, Uncle Eddard's firstborn daughter. "Aye," he remarked, "you are a pretty one." Lyarra beamed and murmured thank you. Her abundant dark hair tumbled down her back and shoulders and her purple eyes glistened like dark amethysts; "The Rose of the North," people called her. Her skin as white as snow and lips a rosy pink, Lyarra was the undisputed jewel of Winterfell. _Lyarra is pretty enough to be queen_ , thought Daenerys. _A pity she is betrothed all but in name to Domeric Bolton_. She would be better off a queen in the sunny south than stuck here in the cold North. Lyarra was born to be queen, not the Lady of the Dreadfort.

"You look like your aunt Lyanna," King Robert commented as he nearly knelt to have a proper look at nine year old Arya. Arya muttered an almost inaudible, "Your Grace," and studied him with her grey Stark eyes as he scrutinised her in return. Small in size, as skinny as a needle and as agile as a starving cat when it came to snatching food in the kitchens, Arya Stark looked a full Stark as Lyarra appeared the young duplicate of their mother.

Throughout her life, Daenerys had heard stories of the wild and beautiful Lady Lyanna Stark whose abduction by the dragon prince launched Robert's rebellion against the Targaryens. When Uncle Eddard spoke of a young Lyanna, it seemed he was describing Arya. "She loved her horses," Uncle Eddard once said, "no one could persuade her from riding horses all day." A few hours after breakfast, Dany and Lyarra managed to pull Arya away from the stables and comb out her knotty strands of brown hair and make her look presentable. Forcing her into the grey dress Aunt Ashara laid out for her proved to be an equally difficult task that had involved pinning her down and finding Lyarra a new dress.

The youngest Stark girl, Gwenysse, was only five. "You will be a blooming rose one day," King Robert promised. "and a fine match will be made for you. How will that sound?" Gwenysse smiled prettily.

Introductions were further made between the king and queen and the wards of Winterfell: Domeric Bolton, tall and handsome with his dark hair and icy blue eyes was greeted first and cocky Theon Greyjoy next. _Theon must hate it_ , noted Daenerys. _Theon is technically Uncle Eddard's hostage due to his father's rebellion_. After the queen said a few kind words to Theon, the royal children were finally brought forward. Dany craned her head again. It was the moment she'd waited for – to see Robb's betrothed for the first time.

Last time the royal family visited Winterfell, Daenerys had been whisked away from sight along with Jon. At least she was present this time. Expectedly, Princess Lyanna Baratheon was the first to be introduced. Even from Daenerys's almost hidden position, she felt slightly intimidated when the willowy princess stepped forward and smile at Robb. Princess Lyanna was tall; without her simple tiara of silver, gold and onyxes, she would merely be a few inches shorter than her stocky betrothed.

Studying the princess from between the shoulders of Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin, Daenerys caught sight of her lustrous locks of coal black hair swept down her back and her eyes as sparkling blue as sapphires. Her cheekbones were high like her mother the queen's – very beautiful indeed. Daenerys squinted at Lyanna Baratheon again. Apart from her black hair and blue eyes, she inherited nothing else from her kingly father.

"My lady princess," Robb said courteously, kissing her hand. "It is an honour to meet you again. You are well I hope?"

As the princess replied charmingly, the king introduced his heir, Prince Orys, to the Starks, followed by his younger son, Prince Ormund, and finally his second daughter and youngest child, Princess Minisa, whose heart-shaped face and black curls was a pleasant contrast to her elder sister.

"Ned! Take me to the crypts!" King Robert's voice boomed. Uncle Eddard led him away and Aunt Ashara immediately offered to take the queen and her ladies inside the Great Hall where it would be warm.

"I guess I will go and stab a few straw dummies," said Jon quietly, turning to leave. "Do you want to come?" Daenerys shook her head regretfully. "I have to go and show a few noble maidens their rooms. Perhaps later?"

Jon nodded. "At least you are wanted."

" _Jon_ ," Dany said with a sad sigh. "We are both bastards, you and I. I'd rather go and decapitate straw dummies with you anytime than linger around and talk to those southron ladies. You know that! Aunt Ashara asked me to help because she is short of men and women. Robb is obliged to entertain his betrothed _and_ show Prince Orys his chambers, Bran must befriend Prince Ormund and help the lords find their rooms, Lyarra is tasked to ensure the queen's nieces and good-sister are comfortable and I must be useful too."

"What of Arya?"

"Aunt Ashara is afraid she will offend someone unintentionally."

Jon snorted. "Arya is Arya. I suppose you better get a move on then. I will see you at the feast tonight."

* * *

Dany had drained her third cup of summer wine before her eyes found their way to Robb and Princess Lyanna at the high table. They were an ideal pair and the princess was already well-liked by the Northerners present.

From bits of gossip with the chattier ladies, Daenerys discovered that Lyanna Baratheon had already began to cease donning colourful silk for more practical and simple coloured materials common in the North. Tonight, she had elected to wear a grey dress embroidered with silver fish and black stags. According to one of the Freys, the princess had asked Aunt Ashara to help style her hair in a more Northern hairstyle! _Try all she likes, she does not belong here_ , Daenerys thought drowsily. _A few hours without silk is nothing; wait a few days and she will revert to her finery. A princess does not belong in the North._

"Careful there. You two have both drank three cups of wine."

Daenerys blinked. On her left, Jon looked equally confused. They stared at the speaker, a dwarf with the lion of Lannister sewn on his tunic. "You are Tyrion of House Lannister," said Dany, recognising him at once. "You are the Imp."

"And you?" Tyrion Lannister sat down opposite them and looked at her with his mismatched eyes. "I know you," he added, glancing at Jon. "You are Jon Snow, Lord Stark's bastard." His gaze returned to Dany. "And you…?"

"Daenerys," she answered. "Daenerys Sand."

Tyrion's eyebrows rose. " _Sand?_ Not Snow? What is a Dornish bastard like you doing up here in the North?" Jon flinched, but Dany held his gaze.

"I am Lady Stark's niece," Daenerys said shortly. "My parents may be Dornish and I may bear the name Sand, but Lord and Lady Stark have raised me as their own since I was born."

"Ah." The Imp poured himself a cup of wine. "Sand….and Snow. I'll take it you are another one of Lord Stark's wards?"

"Yes."

"Lord Stark is very…generous, would you not agree, Daenerys Sand? You, the Bolton heir, the Greyjoy hostage, Bronze Yohn's younger son…am I missing any more of Lord Stark's wards? Mine own father would not even foster one child of a Great House nevertheless four!"

Jon frowned at him. "Being a ward of a Great House is considered an honour."

"Even for say, your Greyjoy friend?"

Now it was Dany's turn to frown. "Do you enjoy mocking others, Lord Tyrion? My uncle has three wards now. Waymar left yesterday for the Wall. What are you doing here, Lord Tyrion?"

The Lannister imp shrugged. "People drink in lies like wine and find the truth as painful as a stab of a dagger…or so I've heard. As for my purpose here…I read many books and heard a great deal about Winterfell and the North and thought it a perfect opportunity to come and see Winterfell for myself. Is that your uncle of the Night's Watch over there?"

Dany glanced over at Uncle Benjen. "Yes."

"Ah!" Tyrion grinned and sipped his wine. " Excellent! I might accompany him and his fellow sworn brothers to the Wall! I always wanted to see it after reading about it in the library at Casterly Rock."

Jon snorted. " _You_ want to join the Night's Watch?"

Tyrion snickered. "By the gods no! All the whores from here to Dorne will go crying my name! I have no desire to join the Night's Watch and be celibate!" He looked at him again. "What of you, bastard? I heard that bastards are drawn to the Night's Watch like moths to a flame."

Jon flushed. "I…I considered it."

"Hmm. Perhaps we'll see each other again when we both journey to the Wall in a day or two eh?"

Dany laughed as Jon quickly edged towards another cup of wine. Tyrion gave her a fleeting look and grinned. "See? Dwarfs like me are not bad for company. I have hoped my father would think that but apparently not." His mismatched eyes of green and black twinkled as he went on. "My uncle Gerion found me amusing and would often give me books as name day presents. My brother Jaime has his sword and I" – he tapped his head – "have my mind. What of you, bastards? The gods have thought fit to make you bastards. What did they compensate you with? Swordsmanship? Intelligence? Seduction?" Daenerys blushed a little as the Imp directed his last word at her.

"Dany? Will you dance with me?"

Daenerys looked up and smiled as Robb appeared at her side. "Will you dance with me?" he repeated, holding out his hand. Dany glanced at Tyrion and Jon. The Imp waved his hand dismissively. "Go dance, Daenerys Sand. I will be more than happy to talk to Jon Snow here." Daenerys could not help but laugh again as she caught a glimpse of Jon's unhappy expression. She smiled at Robb and followed him to the dance floor.

"You look beautiful tonight," complimented Robb, twirling her around. "Is that a new gown?" Dany blushed at the flattery. She quickly smoothed out a wrinkle in her light grey gown rimmed with darker grey fur. Around her wrist jiggled a silver bracelet studded with amethysts, a fifteenth name day gift from her father, Aunt Ashara had told her. It thrilled Dany that her father would think of her from time to time, but she secretly hoped for a letter from him or even an invitation to visit Starfall once in a while.

"Yes. Lyarra helped me make it." Daenerys gracefully moved around, careful not to step on Robb's toes. "Should you not be dancing all night with your lady betrothed?" she teased lightly.

Robb laughed. "I already danced with her twice! Her brother Orys had already claimed her for another dance before I could dance with her again!"

"She is very beautiful."

"Indeed." Robb nodded vaguely. "The king already said twice that Winterfell is a perfect home for Lyanna once we wed."

"He must be eager for you and Princess Lyanna to marry."

"A little _too_ eager if you ask me. The princess is lovely and I've enjoyed talking to her, but…but I wish to know her more before we are married in the godswood in a year or two. The king thinks the princess is ripe for marriage but the queen wants her to wait for a few more years."

"Every mother would want that."

"Queen Catelyn can be quite insistent at times." He lowered his voice. "Did you notice King Robert had not drank a drop of wine all evening? Father said Queen Catelyn managed to stop her husband from drinking. An impressive feat. If he did not drink, how did he get so…so fat?"

"Maybe he substituted his need of wine with food?" Dany suggested. "He must have eaten a lot in King's Landing."

"Very true. I cannot help but notice you spoke to Jon for quite some time." He looked slyly at her.

Dany shrugged. There were not many people who wanted to speak to her. "Jon was the only one who would talk to me."

"Was that all?"

She arched an eyebrow. "What other reason would there be?" As the words slipped from her mouth, she groaned. _Oh. Oh no_. "There is nothing between us!" Dany hissed loudly as Robb snickered and gave her another twirl. "Jon and I are only friends! Why would you think there is something going on? Do you think I only have the one friend?"

"I did not say there was something going on between you and Jon. _You_ did. As Jon's brother, I'm now interested. Are you more than friends?" Dany was saved from answering Robb's question as the dance ended and Lady Alys Karstark was pushed into Robb's arms for the next dance. Daenerys almost rolled her eyes in exasperation. Did Lord Karstark never learn? Robb's been betrothed to Lyanna for years and nothing would break that betrothal…not even a pretty and noble Northern girl like Alys Karstark.

As Dany turned, she came face to face with a small boy – a squire? He looked at her in the eye. "Lady Daenerys…Sand?"

Daenerys nodded slowly.

The boy grabbed her hand and placed something cold on it. "I was ordered to give this to you my lady." Before Dany could say another word, the boy vanished amongst the crowd of dancing couples. She looked down at her palm and gasped, her eyes wide open.

Glistening like blood was a three-headed dragon pendant fashioned from tiny rubies, its eyes formed from onyxes. What in the Seven…?

* * *

 **Writing the introduction scene was one of my favourite in this chapter :) Daenerys may be a little out of character, but I think it can be expected slightly as she was raised in a different household with no knowledge of her Targaryen ancestry. Personally I disliked reading the Daenerys chapters in the books (especially the last couple) and despised her in the TV show. I thought writing Tyrion's conversation would be challenging (so many people write him so well in fanfictions!) but I actually enjoyed it. There will definitely be at least one Tyrion POV in the future.**

 **As for Stannis consummating his marriage with Cersei, I thought he would be secretly a little frightened/uncertain about bedding a woman and wouldn't want Cersei to see his face when they do the deed. I didn't really think he enjoyed doing it either and thought of it as his duty to procreate unlike Cersei who had sex for pleasure. As for Storm's End having Maester Jurne instead of Cressen, Stannis probably wanted a maester he could trust at Dragonstone. I hope I will clear it up more when it's another Davos chapter or something.**


	27. Lyarra I

"Winterfell is a delightful place," Princess Lyanna said as she looked around at the circle of ladies beside her in the sewing room. "You are all fortunate to stay here – I must leave for the south in two days' time."

Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel murmured sympathetic words. "You will soon be back," said Lyarra warmly, "though not as a guest but my good-sister."

The princess smiled. "Indeed, Lady Lyarra. I look forward to the day I can call you my sister. And Lady Arya of course," she added. Her eyes landed on a grumpy Arya who was once again declaring war on her embroidery. Lyarra felt a twinge of sympathy towards her wild sister. When Arya started embroidering the small piece of linen, it had already looked more or less a mess. Stabbing it relentlessly with her needle did not help.

"What?" Arya glanced up. "Oh. Yes. I will be…honoured to call you my sister – once you marry Robb of course." Across from her, Jeyne sniggered. Lyarra shot her a warning glare. It wasn't the first time Jeyne Poole sneered at Arya; it most certainly wouldn't be the last. Ignoring Jeyne, Princess Lyanna Baratheon smiled at Arya. "You do not like sewing, Lady Arya?"

Everyone's eyes swivelled to Arya. Uncertain, Arya glanced around before she said cautiously. "I hate it."

"Arya!" reprimanded Septa Mordane, instantly swooping upon her like a sharp eyed hawk. "Apologise to the princess at once!"

"Why?" demanded Arya. "The princess asked why I disliked sewing!"

The septa looked as if she wanted to slap her. "The princess was being polite Arya! Apologise at once!"

"That is quite alright septa," said Lyanna smoothly. "After living many years in a pit of lies, the truth is quite refreshing." She flashed Septa Mordane a charming smile. "If Lady Arya hates sewing, so be it. I will not despise her because she does not like sewing." She turned to Arya. "If you do not like sewing or embroidering, what do you like doing?"

Arya brightened. "Riding and fighting!"

Lyanna's cousin Melia Tully looked at her queasily. "Fighting?"

As Arya chattered on about her desire to continue her martial pursuits, Lyarra could not help but admire the princess. She was nothing like her father; the right words came to her effortlessly and she was easy to like. _Anyone who can speak to Arya without launching an argument was impressive_. Lyarra quietly sewed as she watched Lyanna nod and talk to Arya. It would be delightful to have Lyanna as a good-sister. Besides, another helping hand in taming and rearing Arya would be useful and Arya seemed fond of the princess already.

At age eleven, Lyarra thought she knew many matters of the world and done a good job controlling Arya. After conversing with the worldly Lyanna, she felt she knew nothing. When she mentioned it to the princess, the latter laughed. "You'd love to speak to Margaery Tyrell," she told her. "She is to be my aunt but is only two years older than me. She knows of matters we girls are not all privileged to know or hear. Lady Margaery is clever – far more clever than I. I'm certain she'll amaze you with her vast knowledge."

"What of you Lady Lyarra? Do you wish to go riding with me, Melia and Arya tomorrow afternoon?"

Lyarra smiled. "I will be delighted, princess."

The princess leant forward. "Is it true, about the direwolves? I heard they have returned to the North. I always thought they were only stories."

"They are real!" insisted Arya.

"May I see one?"

Lyarra glanced at Arya hesitantly. "They are only pups, princess," Lyarra said finally. "Not much different from wolf pups. Only a little…bigger I think. You will be more than welcome to see them when they are older."

"I see." Lyanna did not sound disappointed. "Have you named them?"

Lyarra shook her head. "I have not but my siblings may have."

"I named my pup Nymeria," Arya chipped in, grinning for the first time in a sewing session. "She is very well-behaved."

Lyarra almost snorted. Nothing about Nymeria suggested that.

"After Queen Nymeria of the Rhoyne?" questioned Lyanna. "She was quite an interesting woman was she not?"

Arya nodded eagerly. "She wielded a spear rather than a needle. See? Not all women have to learn to sew." She gave Septa Mordane a smug smile. "Maybe I can fight as well as Nymeria one day."

Jeyne giggled. "Queen Arya Horseface." Lyanna glanced at her and frowned. "I don't think that is very nice, do you? What do you think will happen to you and your family once Lord Stark hears of this?"

Jeyne Poole flushed. "My…my apologies, princess." She turned to Arya. "I hope I have not offended you," she said sulkily.

"Not at all." Arya smiled sweetly. Lyarra shook her head with a quiet sigh. _Arya is plotting revenge as we speak…_ She suspected in a few days' time, Jeyne might be waking up with the smell of sheep dung lingering around her. _A typical Arya idea_ , pondered Lyarra. As a good daughter, Lyarra should report her suspicions to her father or mother. However, she found Jeyne Poole to be irritating and rude; she deserved to be a victim of Arya's wild antics.

 _I am wicked for harbouring such thoughts. We should forgive and forget, not dwell on desires for vengeance – even for tiny, insignificant matters_. The rest of the sewing session passed without incident, Lyarra enjoying the princess's presence more and more. By the time Septa Mordane announced it was time for the feast, Lyarra and Lyanna were deep in discussion about hunting – a favoured pastime enjoyed by both of them.

* * *

The song of clashing steel lured Lyarra from the bedchambers she shared temporarily with Arya and Dany. Both of them asleep, Lyarra quietly dressed herself in a woolly grey gown and donned a furred cloak before descending the stairs to the courtyard. It didn't take her too long to spot a sweaty Robb defeat the laughing Theon and face his next opponent: Domeric Bolton.

Fascinated, Lyarra sat down on a nearby bale of hay and watched Robb wipe blood from his brow as the solemn Domeric brandished his pale milky sword. He was three years older than Robb which already gave him an advantage. Robb did not mind though. He apparently enjoyed the challenge. From what Lyarra heard and witnessed, Robb usually defeated Theon with ease compared to his sparring practices with Domeric and Jon – except in archery. It was Theon Greyjoy who bested them in that.

"They fight well do they not?"

Lyarra almost jumped as Daenerys suddenly appeared at her side, her blonde hair tied up. "What in the name of the Seven are you doing here?" Lyarra hissed, her heart beating ten times faster than before. "I thought you were in bed! What are you doing here? Has something happened to Arya? How do you even know where I am Daenerys?"

Dany grinned and shrugged. "I was in the mood to watch a morning round of sparring. I suppose you are too."

"What are you two doing here?"

Lyarra looked back and saw Robb staring at her, his arms crossed. Theon and Jon strode up to her and Dany, Domeric standing a short distance away cleaning his sword. It was a good blade and a gift from his father. "You should be tucked in bed ladies," said Theon, bemused as he played with his dagger, "or have you left the realm of sleep already?"

"There is a problem?" Lyarra challenged. "You cannot train in the presence of two women? Cravens."

Theon flushed angrily. "Us cravens!"

"It is dangerous for you to be here," said Domeric, walking up to them. "What if we accidently hit you with our swords?" Theon guffawed. "Your lord father will kill us if we hurt you," Domeric continued, ignoring him. " _Especially_ you Lyarra, but I cannot have you accidently injured, Daenerys. You are Lady Stark's niece. I won't be surprised if she lashes at us herself if you are hurt. It'll be in your best interests to return to your rooms."

Lyarra frowned at her betrothed. "Arya spars with you," she pointed out. "You are not concerned with her safety?"

"I do not spar with your sister," Domeric protested.

"Jon does. So does Robb."

"Lyarra!"

"Please go," Robb pleaded with Daenerys. "Ser Rodrik finally allowed us to train with real blades and they are sharp! See?" He showed her the tip of his steel blade. "Go back inside."

"This is cowardly behaviour from you," said Lyarra, disgusted. "What will you do when you spar with the princes? Decline in fear of injuring them? All you will do is show the southron lords that Northerners are cravens."

"It is too early to argue," said Jon, looking at them wearily. "Robb, Domeric, if the girls want to stay and watch, let them. It seems there is nothing we can do to send them back to their rooms." He paused. "After half a day of sewing in a stuffy room under the gaze of Septa Mordane, I can see why you would want to look at something different this morning before going to another session of sewing. Arya told me what happened," he added, noticing Lyarra's astonished expression. "She would not stop complaining about your septa. Again."

"Can I hold one?" said Dany suddenly.

"What?" said Jon, not believing what he heard.

"Can I hold a sword? Arya said it feels much better than holding a needle. Can I hold a sword too?"

"Of course," said Robb tentatively. "Here. I'll um…I'll show you how to ah, hold one properly." He led Daenerys away. Lyarra looked expectedly at Domeric. He shook his head. "No."

"Domeric!" Lyarra playfully punched his arm. "Please?" Theon snorted with laughter and strolled away, Jon trailing behind him. Domeric sighed. "No," he said again. "Robb may be more than happy to indulge Daenerys's wishes – which may involve accidental injury – but I'll not harm you. I am here at Winterfell to assure your lord father of my House's loyalty and our betrothal, and later marriage, is to strengthen the delicate ties between our houses."

"What about after our marriage? Will you teach me to wield a sword then?"

Domeric shook his head. "You will still be a Stark."

"No I wouldn't. I will be Lyarra Bolton, the future Lady of the Dreadfort." She smiled confidently at him. "If relations between our houses are already good and secure, would you let me hold a sword?"

"No."

"Not even as a betrothal gift?"

Domeric gave her an exasperated look. "No! How are you so certain we will be married? Lord Stark had not announced it yet and you are still young. It will be at least another year before we wed, and anything can happen in a year. What if the opportunity arises and Lord Stark finds a better husband for you? Marriage to a Tully will bring southron influence; marriage to a Tyrell will bring rich resources for the next winter; there are plenty of great lords for you to wed."

"You will be a great lord too one day." She sighed softly. Domeric was kind and one of her close friends yet he would be as stubborn as a mule at times. "Will you escort me to my room at least?" she asked. "We hardly talked all week when we were busy preparing for the royal party's arrival."

"Of course." Domeric immediately sheathed his sword in the leather scabbard at his hip and offered her his pale hand. Lyarra smiled and took it. "I still have not properly thanked you for the direwolf pup yet," she admitted as they entered the Great Keep. "I have been rather forgetful of late."

"Was a hug not enough of a thank you?"

"Well…"

"Actually," considered Domeric, "you gave me two hugs. Sufficient enough as a thank you for bringing you your direwolf pup. It was Robb who actually found all of them – except Jon's albino. Jon found him himself. Have you named your pup? I think Robb is deciding to name his either Grey Wind or Frost."

He was about to open the door when Lyarra's pup trotted to them, nuzzling at their legs. Lyarra giggled and picked her up. Her pup was the smallest of the litter and had a coat of grey fur and yellow eyes.

"My great grandfather used to raise dozens of dogs," remarked Domeric. "My father said that he considered dogs more loyal than his men."

"She is so sweet," said Lyarra, caressing her pup's fur. "So well-behaved too. I never had any trouble with her. I tell her to stay on my bed, she obeys. When it is time to feed her, she comes up to me and she does not fuss when I have to bathe her once a day. She is like-"

"A lady?"

Lyarra beamed. "Exactly! That is what I will call her! _Lady_." The direwolf pup yapped happily as if in agreement.

"Arya will laugh at the name choice," commented Domeric.

Lyarra shrugged. "Hers is Nymeria and mine is Lady. Do you think Daenerys is envious she does not have a direwolf pup and we all do?"

"I don't."

"You know what I mean."

Domeric thought for a moment. "Daenerys seems like a caring and loving girl. I doubt she harbours jealousy of any type in her heart. Even if she does, I'm certain she knows she is not a Stark. Jon is a bastard like her, but is Lord Stark's natural son. Daenerys is Lord Stark's bastard niece through Lady Stark. If she does wish for a pup, someone can always arrange for her to receive a dog on her next name day or something. Speaking of Daenerys Sand, do you think there is something, I don't know…amiss about her?"

"No?"

"I could not help but notice she only danced once last night…with Robb. I am under the assumption she loved dancing."

"She could've been ill? Mother told me that at a certain point in a girl's life, she will flower and become a woman and the flowering is painful." She shuddered. "I am glad I have not flowered yet."

Domeric shifted uncomfortably. "Um…right." He glanced at the door. "Is Arya still asleep? Breakfast is in an hour or two."

"Why are you and the others awake so early?"

"Ser Rodrik said it is best for a soldier to rise at dawn and set us an exercise to awake early every day at dawn for a week. Theon hates it, but I find it useful." His gaze swirled to her. "Why were you awake so early?"

"I couldn't sleep. I wanted to sleep more but my mind wouldn't let me."

Domeric smiled faintly. "We all have plenty of time to sleep when we are dead I suppose. You should go back to bed. I will ensure Daenerys arrives at breakfast on time. I promise."

* * *

Lyarra found herself trailing behind Robb and Lyanna with Dany for company. The two of them were assigned to chaperone Robb and Lyanna for a walk in the gardens at Winterfell. The queen was not pleased with a bastard chaperoning her daughter but there was little she could do.

"You spent quite some time with the boys this morning," said Lyarra lightly as they followed Robb and Lyanna to the glass garden. "Did Robb teach you how to hold a sword properly?"

Daenerys nodded. "He was very helpful."

"Robb tries to help as much as he can. I did not see you at breakfast. Should we have Maester Luwin examine you?"

"I'm fine Lyarra. A little tired I guess, nothing more. It is a moon blood matter. You will have it too one day." _I hope not too soon_. "I cannot help but wonder why I am here," Dany murmured, more to herself than to Lyarra. "Why was I brought to Winterfell? Where does my future lie? Was my father too embarrassed about me that he had to ship me to Winterfell to live with Aunt Ashara? Do the gods want me here for a reason?"

"What's with the sudden questions Dany?"

Dany glanced around cautiously. "Can you keep a secret?"

Lyarra nodded. She considered Daenerys a sister; betraying her trust was out of the question. "I swear," she promised.

"You will not tell your father or mother? Or anyone?"

"I promise I won't tell anyone unless you wish me too."

Daenerys nodded, satisfied. "Last night at the feast, something odd happened after I danced with Robb. A little boy came up to me and gave me a pendant. He knew my name, Lyarra. _How would he know my name?_ " she murmured, terror in her violet eyes. "I thought my eyes were deceiving me but apparently not. It was a jewelled pendant…wrought in the shape of a dragon."

"Perhaps you have an admirer who thought a dragon pendant would suit you well," Lyarra suggested.

She did not seem certain. "Robb said the same thing. Who would admire me? I am a bastard with no prospects."

"You are beautiful."

"Worthy enough for an expensive pendant? Who would have the gold and the means of purchasing it?"

Lyarra considered it. "The Lannisters? They are one of the wealthiest families in Westeros. I believe Lord Tyrion is here." She smirked. Dany flushed pink. "He was talking to Jon all night," she answered stiffly. "Besides, he is highborn and of a Great House. He would not want to waste his time with a bastard."

"He is a dwarf."

"So? He is still a Lannister."

"The Tyrells are wealthy too."

"There are no Tyrells here though. What type of dragon was it?"

"A three-headed one." She paled. "By the Seven…how slow am I? The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen…who would send me that? Someone wicked must want us incriminated or out of favour with the king. Why me?" Lyarra said nothing and listened as Dany muttered to herself, her eyes shining with wonder, puzzlement and fear.

"Wait," said Lyarra suddenly. "Did you say you told Robb about this?"

Daenerys nodded. "I trust him," she assured her. "I would have confided in Jon first, but it seemed he had a lot on his mind. I would've told you anyway, but you might have wanted a moment with Domeric this morning."

"What did Robb say?"

"Nothing much." Daenerys stared ahead as if in a dream state. "He said that I have naught to worry about. He promised he would defend me if something bad ever happens. I believed him." She smiled at Lyarra. "You are lucky you have such a protective brother. A pity you will lose him to Princess Lyanna one day. Then again, he will lose you to Domeric Bolton soon enough."

Lyarra nodded. "What's on Jon's mind?" she said curiously. Jon had not looked any more miserable; he looked the same as he always did. Dany shook her head and said wisely. "When he is ready, he will tell you."

* * *

 **Just clearing things up, Lyarra kind of tuned out when Daenerys started muttering to herself so Dany as a Targaryen did not click for Lyarra. Unfortunately I'm sick again -_- This year is turning out to be not such a great year for me in the illness section haha. As for shipping Daenerys with someone...hehe I guess you have to wait and see ;) Any suggested POVs for the future chapters?**


	28. Ashara IV

A cold breeze settled over Winterfell as the sun began its ascent to the cloudy sky. Silencing an upcoming yawn, Ashara glanced up. It looked as if it was about to rain sometime today.

 _Lovely_ , she thought with a sigh as two servants secured her baggage on one of her horses. _Such an excellent time to leave…when it will rain_. She drew her cloak around her tightly as she headed to the busy courtyard. Robert and Catelyn were about to leave with their family and court – at last. For the majority of the route to Starfall, Ashara decided to accompany them. Surely it would be much safer to journey in the king's huge entourage than by herself with a few men!

After examining Ned's map of Westeros a few days ago, Ashara planned to rest for a couple of days or so in King's Landing before heading down to Blackhaven, the seat of her future good-brother. She longed to see her nephew again and was eager to meet Lord Beric _. Perhaps he will be kind enough to escort me to Starfall – Allyria said he will claim her one day._ Mayhaps Ashara would have the honour of witnessing their wedding soon.

"I wish I could accompany you." Ned watched her pat her horse. "The last time I saw Allyria, she was a little girl."

"She is still curious about you," said Ashara with a laugh. "She once asked me if you could transform into a direwolf at night."

Ned snorted. "Unfortunately she is not the first to think that."

"I will be gone for some time…"

"Do not fear Ashara. I will not go around marrying off our children."

Ashara rolled her eyes. "What about you? When I return in a few months, will I be presented with a baby Snow?" Ned flinched. Ashara shrugged. "I trust you, but if you happen to accidently bed and impregnate a woman when I'm gone, at least send me a raven. You know I do not like surprises."

"Really?" said Ned with a surprisingly teasing smile. "I thought Rickon was a surprise. You seemed happy when you were pregnant with him."

Ashara laughed sarcastically. "That was a _pleasant_ surprise, Ned. Giving birth though." She shuddered. "I hope never to do that again."

"You said that every time your contractions started. You know I will never go around bedding women on any occasion." It was Ned's turn to shudder. "If you'd married Brandon, I won't be surprised if you discover he left many bastards from the North to Dorne. Brandon had always been more hot-blooded. Robert reminds me of him at times. Their lust for women!" He shook his head. "Even after we had created seven children, the desire for making love still does not appeal to me – it is not your fault of course."

"It better not be."

"Write to me once you arrive at King's Landing, or even before that. Which of my guards are escorting you?"

"Alyn, Desmond, Cayn and Porther."

"Four men? Take Jory with you. I would also insist for you to take Ser Rodrik as another guard-"

"The boys need him as their trainer here. I will not deprive them of their tutor. I will be travelling with Robert and his court; they all have guards with them. I'll be safe with them."

"What about when you leave King's Landing for Starfall? I doubt five men can protect you from bandits or robbers."

"You do not think much of your men's battle prowess."

"Ashara!"

Ashara squeezed his hand. "Do not fear for me Ned. I'll stop at Blackhaven on the way. Lord Dondarrion will be my future good-brother. Perhaps he can spare a few more men to escort me to Starfall. Besides, if I do come upon some sort of trouble, I know how to use a dagger."

Ned frowned. "I'm sorry?"

Ashara could not help but smirk at him. "What did you think the late Sword of the Morning taught his little sister after he attained his knighthood? He wouldn't teach me how to wield a sword, but a dagger would do well enough for a lady of my station. Don't look at me like that Ned! If you wanted to marry a pretty and simpering southron rose, next time pick one from Highgarden. I'm certain they have an abundance of sweet roses for you." She paused. "Encourage Arya in her martial pursuits," she said in a rush.

"She is a-" began Ned, but she interrupted. "She will never be a proper lady. It is time we stop thinking that. I know you have been aware of her ah, distaste to feminine activities. The more we force her to sew, dance and sing, the more she will rebel and give us headaches – as well as poor Septa Mordane. Negotiate with her. I know you will do the right thing."

"No one will want to wed a wild girl," said Ned uncertainly.

Ashara snorted. "You always said your sister Lyanna was wild and Robert still wanted to marry her. By the Seven, he started a whole war and ousted the entire royal family for her. There will always be someone who will love Arya for who she truly is. Arya may spend her entire life here in the North, but at least she will be happy. I doubt she will like King's Landing."

"You want Ser Rodrik to teach Arya swordplay? Who will be brave enough to spar with her? Robb? Theon? Jon? Domeric?"

"Jon will."

"I suspect Jon will not remain here much longer."

Ashara could not hide her surprise. "Oh? Is he serious about becoming a man of the Night's Watch? I thought he was jesting."

"When does Jon ever jest? Once a week perhaps." Ned sighed. "Losing Benjen to the black brothers is bad enough, but to allow Jon to go too…"

"What if you ask Robert to…legitimise him?" Ned stared at her, his eyes wide with shock. "Technically he is a Stark," said Ashara quickly. "I know he's… _her_ son, but he is still a Stark. Give him a holdfast, some land and a wife. That will surely keep him away from the Wall. He is still a young boy; I doubt he's serious about the Night's Watch. Believe me, Jon is only bitter about his bastard status and with Robb's betrothal a fresh matter here, he envies him. No one will wed a bastard of the North, but some may marry a legitimised one."

"Catelyn will not agree-"

"Who holds the power to legitimise bastards? Robert or Catelyn?"

Ned gave her a level look. "He cannot be in the line of succession to Winterfell. No one will accept that – especially not the queen. If Robert legitimises Jon and puts him in the Winterfell succession, what will stop him from legitimising all his bastards? Having the Riverlands as our enemy will be…unpleasant. I will go and speak to Robert about this, but prepare for the worst: today may be the last day you will see Jon here."

"I will leave in an hour," said Ashara, glancing uneasily at the other lords and ladies ordering their servants and squires about in the courtyard. "There's barely enough time to say my farewells…I suppose I should go and bid goodbye to our children…and Jon. Robert is still in the guest chambers last time I caught sight of him," she added. "It didn't look like he was in a rush to return south. Maybe he is still in there now."

Ned nodded. "I will try and meet you again before you leave," he promised. "If I do not have the chance to say goodbye-"

"I know you love me," Ashara finished. She smiled at him. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Go and talk to Robert. I have farewells to make."

* * *

The sun still had not managed to escape from its cloudy prison at midday. The southron lords and ladies chattered with good spirits as their large entourage set off in the long journey to King's Landing. From time to time, Ashara glanced back at Winterfell, her stomach mixed with emotions.

 _I should be happy I am visiting Starfall_ , she thought. _It was my home…it should still be my home._ She wondered if it was a mistake travelling with the royal party. It certainly guaranteed more protection – at the cost of a sluggish journey. "You are quiet of late." Catelyn slowed down on her horse and waited for her to catch up. "Is there something on your mind?"

Ashara shrugged. "It had been years since I travelled somewhere without Ned. It feels a little strange."

"You are not alone. Your sweet Bran is here."

"I do not think he is ready to be at court…"

"He will be under Lord Arryn's care. Both our husbands agreed that Bran and Ormund will flourish under his guardianship."

"Will Prince Orys be fostered with them too?"

Catelyn laughed. "No. Robert fears the duties of Hand of the King and taking care of two wards will take its strain on Lord Arryn. He is fortunate to have such a loyal man like Nestor Royce in the Vale to serve as High Steward."

"Ned often wondered if it would've been wiser if he had Robb fostered."

"I am fortunate Lord Arryn is the King's Hand. If he was not, Ormund must go to the Vale and I cannot bear the thought of him leaving us." Catelyn closed her eyes for a second. "I'm afraid I am still more Tully than Baratheon," she said with a dry smile. " _Family, Duty, Honour_. I would always want my family close to me. I already dread the day your Robb will take my Lyanna away from me even though Robb has a kind heart and will be a good husband."

"I too fear the day my daughters leave Winterfell."

"Gwenysse is five. There will be a good many years until she's married off. Will it be a Northern lord for her?"

Ashara shrugged. "Many Starks wedded Northerners or Valemen. One or two may have even married noble ladies of the Riverlands. Robb will marry your dear daughter, Lyarra will wed Domeric Bolton...I suspect Bran will be betrothed to a highborn maiden of the Vale once he leaves Lord Arryn's care. Probably a Royce. In any case, Ned promised he wouldn't marry off any of our children when I'm at Starfall. Have all your children been affianced yet?"

Catelyn shook her head. "Either Robert does not seem to be interested or his councillors are attempting to build alliances as we speak. Only Lyanna is engaged at the moment. You should've seen those Tyrells, Ashara. Weeds more than roses. All Lord Tyrell does is brag about the accomplishments of his daughter and offer her to be Orys's bride – even though she is still engaged to Renly. They should be satisfied with Lady Margaery and Renly's betrothal." She sighed.

Ashara remembered the blustering Mace Tyrell of Highgarden from her last visit to King's Landing. He was one of the most foolish lords she had ever met or conversed with. "Any likely brides for your princes?"

"All the great lords want their daughters to be queen. If Robert decides to pick the one with the largest dowry, I suppose I'll have a Lannister good-daughter by the end of the year…though I already have a Lannister good-sister." She smiled at Ashara. "If Lyarra wasn't affianced to Domeric Bolton, I would love to have her as my good-daughter."

"That is kind of you."

"It's the truth. Lyarra was gracious and kind during my stay in Winterfell and an excellent dancer. Domeric Bolton is lucky to have her as his future bride. Will she ever come to King's Landing?"

"If it was up to me, I would take her to King's Landing a few times – when she is a little older of course. Ned does not have any warmth towards King's Landing and may wish to keep our children at Winterfell. Of course now that Bran will be fostered at court, perhaps Ned will appreciate King's Landing more." A tiny smile lingered on Ashara's lips.

"What is it?" Catelyn noticed the smile.

"Bran," said Ashara with a chuckle. "Before we left Winterfell, I saw him sneak around, following Ser Barristan and the Blackfish. He always dreamed of being a knight. It seems his dreams will come true."

"Every little boy wants to be a knight," Catelyn agreed. "Ormund is entranced with my uncle Brynden's wartime stories. He would not sleep without a bedtime story from Uncle Brynden. Sometimes he still would not. Robert finds it amusing. He laughs every time Ormund would demand a story from Brynden. Orys used to ask for stories too, but not anymore." Her eyes glazed with sadness.

"Your Grace, Lady Stark." The Blackfish rode up to them. "We are about to rest for an hour or two. Are you tired from riding yet?"

Ashara shook her head. "I can ride for at least another two hours Ser Brynden. What of you, Your Grace?"

* * *

Ashara was delighted when the servants led her to her old chambers at King's Landing. After four weeks of riding or resting in the wheelhouse, she had reached King's Landing at last. However, there were no celebrations at court. Jon Arryn was dead and the last of the Vale lords were about to depart.

When Robert first heard the news, he was furious…at Stannis. "WHY DID YOU NOT TELL ME OF THIS?" he had thundered. Ashara wondered how Stannis could remain calm and expressionless as Robert berated him loudly and publically. _He does not even tremble or cower away_. More to the point, Stannis insisted he had a raven sent to him once Jon Arryn died.

"I'm sorry about earlier." Catelyn appeared at Ashara's door. She had changed from her blue gown to black. "Robert should not have shouted at Stannis in front of you and the other courtiers."

"You have naught to apologise for," replied Ashara. "It is a shock, is it not? Jon Arryn dead…I suppose Bran will return back to Winterfell."

"Don't send him back so soon! He only arrived! Besides, Ormund likes him. He told me yesterday that he is happy to have Bran as a friend and was eager to start his lessons with him once matters settle down. We will find another good lord to foster Bran and Ormund; do you want to end Bran's dreams of knighthood? He'll not thank you for this." Catelyn paused. "What about you? How long will you stay here for before you go to Starfall?"

"A few days. The sooner I arrive at Starfall the better. As for Bran…is he aware that Lord Arryn is dead?"

"You have not seen your son yet?"

"I…I was not told where his chambers are."

Catelyn laughed. "He was given the chambers beside yours! He's not there at the moment; Ormund is showing him around the Red Keep – under supervision of course." Her blue eyes twinkled. "Do you know who ended up with the task of watching them? The Blackfish!"

Ashara chuckled. "You must be jesting Catelyn!"

"No, no! Ser Brynden had to go and watch them for the day! It meant I must have Ser Garth Hightower as my sworn shield today. He is not the same as Uncle Brynden, but he is a brilliant swordsman."

"Garth Greysteel? Your good-brother? I thought he was set to wed a Fossoway of New Barrel a few months ago?"

"Oh, he was…until Ser Yorbert Royce died, leaving a vacancy in the Kingsguard. My father saw Ser Garth fight in tourneys before and recommended him. In a few days, Ser Garth was summoned from Oldtown to King's Landing and offered the empty position in the Kingsguard. He accepted. His younger brother Ser Gunthor wedded Lady Jeyne Fossoway in his stead."

"Did Lady Jeyne consent to a change of husband?"

Catelyn shrugged. "I doubt she had much say in the matter. Besides, both Sers Garth and Gunthor are excellent at swordplay and Leyla told me Gunthor spent a few years studying at the Citadel where he learnt to speak the Summer Tongue. That should surely please Lady Jeyne. Ser Gunthor is useful here; he could speak to Prince Jalabhar Xho of the Red Flower Vale with ease. Do you recall Jalabhar Xho, Ashara? He is the exiled prince from the Summer Islands."

Ashara was more surprised to learn the dark-skinned exiled prince from the Summer Islands still dwelled at King's Landing. "Why is he still here?" she could not help ask. "I thought you said Robert considered giving him money and a few squads of men to go and reclaim his seat somewhere in the Summer Isles?" She frowned. "Wait. Let me guess: Robert entertains the idea of conquering or aiding Prince Jalabhar Xho, but procrastinates on the matter."

"Many councillors are against the idea of sending men to the Summer Isles – I admit it would be safer to keep our soldiers here."

"Oh?"

Catelyn lowered her voice. "Targaryen pretenders."

A laugh escaped Ashara's lips. "Catelyn! You _must_ be jesting! Targaryens? Had Robert been telling you his fears again?"

The queen shrugged. "Some of my servants are prone to gossip and I do hear hushed words said accidently by passing by councillors." Her eyes widened. "Oh, I should go and speak a few condolences to the remaining Vale lords. I'll see you at supper Ashara."

* * *

Before the dancing could begin, Ashara excused herself from her conversation with Lady Tanda Stokeworth and found Bran chatting animatedly with Ormund. It was a pleasing sight. "Bran," Ashara approached them. She dipped her head at Ormund. "My prince. May I have a word with Bran?"

"Of course Lady Stark," said Ormund instantly. Bran grinned at him and went with her to a slightly more secluded area of the Great Hall. "I did not climb on any walls," said Bran at once, "I swear on the old gods and new-"

Ashara kissed him on the cheek. "I believe you."

"You do?"

"Listen, I did not pull you here to interrogate you about your climbing. I must go to Starfall in a few days, well technically Blackhaven, and I will not be back for a while. I worry for you and your siblings, but you especially."

"Is that because I am the only Stark at King's Landing?"

Ashara nodded. "You are a good boy – I know you are. I trust King Robert will foster you off to a suitable lord and you are too prove to him how dedicated and hard-working you are to your lessons. _No more climbing_ , do you hear me? I know you will miss it, but what will your father say when he hears rumours or tales of you recklessly climbing the walls? He will be angry and I will too. I'm pleased you and Ormund are good friends already and I'm certain he and Queen Catelyn will help you settle in. Talk to other boys your age if you will, but do not talk to those you think suspicious." She lowered her voice. "If you feel something off about any man who tries to speak to you, trust your instincts. Be wary, Bran. I don't want to frighten you, but you must know: court is like a snake's pit. If you show any sign of weakness, they will destroy you."

Bran looked bewildered. "Mother?"

"Your father said a Stark does not belong in King's Landing. Daynes do though. Well, they did. You are half-Dayne through me-"

"Mother, what are you talking about?" His dark blue eyes glistened with fear and puzzlement. "If King's Landing is dangerous, why did you and Father consent to foster me here?"

Robert insisted. He always insists – and wins. "Prince Ormund needs a friend," Ashara said quietly. "King Robert and your father are such good friends that the king thought you and Ormund will be too. I will come and see you once all is well at Starfall. Can you do something else for me?"

"Anything Mother."

"No more climbing on walls – whether at Winterfell, King's Landing or places you may go to, _do not climb on any more walls_."

* * *

 **I thought it would be nice to get the start of Ashara's journey out of the way. A quick head's up: the next chapter is a Jon POV. I spent most of yesterday and today plotting the rest of Part 2's storyline and after deliberating on it for a while, I decided to split it in half so there'll be a Part 3 as there are too many years from the beginning and ending of Part 2 I planned and character development is essential so I apologise if some of you may find it irritating if the pace is (or will be) too slow. I'm pretty depressed that I can't move the ending I wanted any earlier but I won't sacrifice poor character development for it.**

 **I've already written down the POVs you wanted and if they're not in Part 2, they'll definitely be in Part 3 :)**


	29. Jon I

Ghost sniffed at his old leather boots as he turned around to pick up his sword from his bed. Jon straightened and surveyed his quarters.

When he entered boyhood, he first shared a large room with Robb. Together they would dream of the day they'd be handed steel swords for the first time; another dream would be when they march north to the Wall and help defend the Seven Kingdoms from the troublesome wildlings. Eventually Lord Stark decided it was time for Robb to have his own chambers.

After Lord Stark told him he was a bastard, Jon often dreamt he was a Stark of Winterfell. Lady Stark was kind to him and his half-siblings loved him as much as he loved them…yet he was branded a Snow – a bastard of the North.

"Come on," Jon told Ghost who had sat down silently. "We will leave with my uncle Benjen in a few hours and there are plenty of people to bid goodbye to." _I will miss Winterfell_. The thought of joining the prestigious Night's Watch thrilled him yet filled him with sadness. Once the gates of Winterfell close behind him, he would never duel or train with Robb again; arguing with Lyarra would be naught but faint words; no more teaching Bran archery; listening patiently to Arthur's childish chatter would end; even sparring and quarrelling with Greyjoy would be nothing but a memory. Jon's heart ached as he stepped over the threshold of his oaken bedchamber door.

Arya.

"Why are you leaving?" she demanded, her grey eyes flashing with anger. "Do you not miss us?"

"Arya…" said Jon uncomfortably. He tried to take another step but she blocked him, her arms crossed in front of her chest. He looked down at her. "Arya, I don't want us to be on bad terms when I leave."

"Winterfell is your home! _Our_ home, stupid! You don't have to go running off to the Wall like a coward because you're not a Stark."

"I'm not a coward-"

" _Yes you are!_ " she almost shouted. "You told me that cowards run to the Wall like dogs with their tails between their legs!"

Jon flushed. He had hoped to break the news of his departure to her last – it would give him time to think of what to say. He silently cursed. Why did I tell her that I thought cravens ran to the Wall? Fool. "I cannot do anything here," Jon said, thinking rapidly. "You, Lyarra and Gwenysse will all flourish House Stark's status through good marriages, Robb will be the next Lord of Winterfell and your little brothers will all be knights. What can I possibly do? I'm a Snow!"

Arya glared at him. "Is that what you care about? What about me? What about Robb? Don't you think we will miss you?"

 _Of course I will miss you. Especially you._ "You know I will miss you-"

"Don't leave!" Jon's mouth dropped open when Arya wrapped her skinny arms around him and buried her face in his chest. "Please don't leave," she whispered softly. "I don't want you to go…"

"I must," Jon said gently, relieved Arya was no longer mad at him. Despite her small size, an angry Arya was not good. "Uncle Benjen is First Ranger. Imagine if I could rise in the ranks of the exalted Night's Watch! You will be proud to call me your brother when I see you again as a ranger."

"I am already proud to call you my brother, Jon."

Jon smiled and patted her back. "I'll always be proud of you."

Arya broke away, a look of horror written on her face. "With you gone, who will be brave enough to fight against me?"

Jon laughed. "You have plenty to choose from. There is Robb-"

"He's a coward."

"Very well…there is Domeric-"

"He's a coward too."

Jon frowned slightly. "How is Domeric a coward?" He could not help but recall uneasily of Domeric's composed exterior when he prepared to kill the direwolf pups. A coward would not draw his sword to kill pups out of mercy.

"He never fights with me," said Arya promptly. "Whenever I ask him, he would say the same thing. 'I don't want you hurt'," she mimicked Domeric, "'if I do, Lord Stark will have my head'. See? Coward."

"That…that is not cowardice Arya. That is chivalry. Besides, how do you think it would look if he did injure you? People would say Domeric Bolton deliberately attacked Lord Stark's daughter."

Arya scoffed. "So?"

Jon shook his head with an exasperated sigh. " _Arya_. Do you want your father to be burdened with trouble? People will talk and say that the Boltons still hold a grudge against the Starks or something. That'll go against everything Lyarra and Domeric's betrothal stands for."

"Why is it that everyone talks about either Robb's betrothal or Lyarra's?" Arya rolled her eyes. "Surely there is more interesting news."

"Like what?"

Arya's eyes sparkled mischievously. _Oh no_. "Will you help me put sheep dung in Jeyne's bed? There's enough time…before you leave."

"I don't know…"

"Come on! You're my last hope Jon! Lyarra said she would have nothing to do with it and Dany is sick. _Again_. You have to help me! Jeyne deserves to smell like sheep dung for the next few days!"

"Dany is sick?" That was news to Jon. "Has Maester Luwin seen her?" he asked anxiously. "Has she caught a cold?"

"You sound like Robb. All Dany said was that she's suffering from some minor ailment or something. You know Jeyne must suffer! How can you stand watching her moon and pine at Robb like a silly cow? She calls you and Dany bastards too – when Mother isn't around of course."

Jon shrugged. "Dany and I _are_ bastards."

"Don't call yourself that! You're my brother and Dany's my cousin. I hate when people call you bastards." Her eyes narrowed. "Why is Jeyne still here? Why can't Father remove her from here? Winterfell will be a much better place without her or her annoying friends."

"Vayon Poole had been loyal to Winterfell and your father for many years and Jeyne is his daughter. If you find Jeyne Poole irritating, how will you cope with all the other southron ladies if you are ever invited to King's Landing?"

Arya snorted. "I will not go."

"What if it's Robb's wedding?"

"Robb will marry Lyanna here."

True enough. "I have enough time for a spar," said Jon lightly. "I'll just go and say goodbye to everyone else-"

"Can we spar now?" begged Arya. "Please? You might spend hours farewelling Robb and then leave for the Wall without time for a last fight. Besides, after you say your vows you'll come back to visit Winterfell wouldn't you? It'll probably be years away and I won't be here. Robb still will."

Jon sighed. "I hope you've been practising," he teased. Arya grinned and both of them walked to the training yard, Arya almost running with glee. As Jon placed his sword and cloak onto a stone bench, Arya had grabbed two wooden swords from the pile of wooden swords Ser Rodrik always left nearby. Sitting patiently beside the bench were their pups, Ghost and Nymeria.

"Ready?" inquired Jon, positioning himself. Before he could move, Arya lunged at him and whacked him with her sword. " _Arya!_ " exclaimed Jon, staggering as she thwacked him again. He managed not to trip over his own feet and swing his sword against hers.

 _Thunk._

The two wooden blades collided. Arya grinned. _If only Arya was born a boy_ , Jon thought as he defended another attack. _A pity the gods decided to grant the Starks a wild girl than a boy_. He parried two blows in rapid succession. As if cheering on her mistress, Nymeria yapped happily. Suddenly, as if born a natural swordsman, Arya had knocked his sword from his hand.

Jon stared at her, astonished.

"I didn't know you lost to girls Snow!"

Theon fucking Greyjoy. He was one Jon would not miss once he left Winterfell. When Theon first arrived at Winterfell's gates, Jon pitied him. He could scarcely imagine what it would be like to leave home and spend possibly the rest of your life as a hostage to your family's enemy. Jon's sympathy for Theon vanished once that cocky kraken revealed his true colours.

"Very funny," said Jon sarcastically. To his dismay, Robb and Domeric had also watched his spectacular loss…against Arya.

"See?" said Arya triumphantly. "I can defeat Jon."

Jon flushed as the others choked with laughter. "You lost…to a nine year old girl," snickered Theon. "What a brave man of the Wall you will be! Are you sure you want to freeze your balls off at the Wall, Snow? Wait, let me guess. You plan to go there…only to run back here!"

Jon wanted nothing more than to strangle that squid. "Taking the black is an honour Jon," said Domeric solemnly. "The Night's Watch will be pleased to have a man like you in their ranks. I heard Lord Tyrion Lannister plans to travel to the Wall with the other visiting black brothers. Will you be accompanying him too, or will you be riding beside your uncle?"

"I'll probably ride beside Uncle Benjen," answered Jon.

"I talked with Lord Tyrion at the feast. He was quite knowledgeable about the North for a southroner."

"Indeed. Quite witty for a dwarf too. Did you see how much he could drink? It was shocking; cup after cup of good wine."

"Does he really drink that much?" said Arya, interested.

Robb glanced at her. "You shouldn't be listening to this! It's inappropriate for a lady's ears!" He frowned. "Did you run away from Septa Mordane again?"

"I'm not a lady!" huffed Arya. "So what if I miss another sewing session? I tried to tell Father that we already have too many sewing sessions but he didn't seem to listen. Why can't I stay?"

"Sneak back," advised Jon. "Septa Mordane is probably still praising Lyarra's embroidery and will not notice if you sneak in. I'll see you again before I leave. I promise." He squeezed her shoulder.

"Will there be time for another duel?" said Arya hopefully.

Theon snorted. "No," said Jon gently. "You're progressing well. Maybe you can show Father and he may let you train with Robb, Theon and Domeric. You know I love you, right?"

Arya nodded, her grey eyes blank. "I will watch you until you are out of sight," she vowed. "Septa Mordane wouldn't let me watch Mother and Bran leave; she'll not stop me bidding farewell to you."

* * *

"Should you not be in the Great Hall, eating your last meal at Winterfell?" The Imp sauntered up to him, a cup in hand. Jon did not need to guess what it was. "I see you're ready to go," the Imp noted, glancing at his black furs. "The same can't be said about your future brothers."

"We still have an hour before we leave," said Jon stiffly, shifting uncomfortably to avoid his stare. "I'll go and eat in a few minutes." To his discomfort, Tyrion the Imp stood beside him, taking a sip of wine. "A lovely view," he commented, giving a nod to the crypts and the broken tower. "The home of dearly departed Starks and a collapsed tower. A pleasant scenery, hmm? Now the question is…what is a bastard like you doing here? I doubt you have Stark ancestors to bid goodbye to do you?" He snickered.

Jon grimaced. "What are you doing here, Lord Tyrion?"

"Please, call me Tyrion. Judging by my stature, I will never be a knight, and my father would rather eat his own shit than declare me his heir of Casterly Rock." The dwarf sniggered. "Though I _am_ the legal heir of Casterly Rock. I most likely will not come to Winterfell again so why not take in the scenery while I can? It's quite lovely; the melting snow, abandoned towers, ancient godswood…shall I go on? I can see why a good many love Winterfell."

"It is the most empty. There are still Northern lords milling in the courtyard. I didn't want to talk to them."

"I see. Care for a sip?" Tyrion offered his wine cup to Jon. "It's very good. You might not ever taste it again."

"I'm sure they have wine at the Wall."

"How long have you considered joining the Wall?"

 _Ever since Waymar left for the Watch_. "Quite some time," answered Jon. "I am no longer a boy and I am not needed here. Robb will continue learning to be the Lord of Winterfell, the girls will soon leave to their husbands, the younger Stark boys will be given their own lands…"

"So? Did Lady Stark treat you poorly?"

"Well no-"

"Did Lord Stark separate you from his trueborn children?"

"No but-"

"Were you in any way mistreated or abused?"

"No-"

"There!" Tyrion gave him a victorious grin. "I see no reason why you should go to the Wall when you are perfectly accepted here!"

"What do you know about being a bastard at Winterfell?"

Tyrion paused for a minute. "All dwarfs are bastards in their father's eyes," he said finally. "People whisper about you yes? At least they have the decency to say what they want about you quietly. How do you think they treat dwarfs? At court, I am ridiculed and laughed at. Believe me bastard, it would've been much worse if I did not have the good fortune of being born a Lannister."

"Joining the Night's Watch is honourable-"

"Shit on honour," snorted Tyrion. "Honour may be viewed highly here in the North, but in the south, no one gives a fuck about honour. Honour will no doubt get you killed. Once long ago the Night's Watch was full of honourable men who were devoted to duty – once long ago. Are you aware your future black brothers are mostly lowborn and criminals?"

"Yes…"

The Imp chuckled. "A lovely prospect is it not? Gaining more brothers. What did Lord and Lady Stark say to your desire to be a black brother?"

"They did not sound happy but Lord Stark said if it was what I wished, then he would ride to the Wall with me."

"Did he? When I saw Lord Stark this morning, he was conversing with one of his Northern lords. He did not seem ready to leave with you." Jon flushed. "What are your true intentions running north?"

Jon said nothing.

"Very well," said Tyrion, drinking more wine. "Before you leave, are you aware that you cannot marry or ever have children?"

" _Yes_ ," said Jon testily. "My father told me everything about it already and I did learn about it in the schoolroom."

"Of course you did. Of course you did. Have you ever had a sweetheart?"

Jon was taken back. "I'm sorry?"

"Have you ever fallen in love?" repeated Tyrion. "Are you in love with a girl in Winterfell? Think about her. Once you leave for the Wall, you will never see her again. If you do, you can never marry her. Being of the honourable Lord Stark's blood, I doubt you will even think of having a tumble with her."

 _I wouldn't_. Jon felt torn. For the last few days, he had been too wrapped up in his own thoughts he had forgotten about the feelings of others. It was true that Daenerys's a bastard, but she was foremost Lord Stark's ward. Would he have a chance with her or would it be better to forget about her and continue his trip to the Wall. "I…" said Jon weakly. "I plan to join the Night's Watch…"

You haven't said your vows yet," Tyrion pointed out. "It is true that a bastard like you can rise through the ranks at the Wall, but why bother?"

"Why not?"

"You can be knighted by your master-at-arms here. Ser Jon Snow! I heard you are good with the blade. You might make an illustrious name for yourself when you enter jousting tourneys and melees."

"We don't have many tourneys in the North."

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "Do you think me a fool, bastard? Go south! There are plenty of tourneys there! It's rumoured that there are tourneys almost every day in Highgarden. To my knowledge, there will be a tourney in a few months' time. I believe it is to celebrate our good Queen Catelyn's birthday. Go south. There are no Targaryens left." He chuckled. "I doubt you have to worry about your sisters if they wish to attend. There will be no Targaryen princes abducting Stark ladies in any more tourneys." Jon managed a small smile.

"Arya does not want me to go," he admitted.

"Ah," mused Tyrion. "The one the king thought looked like Lyanna Stark. Have I convinced you enough to stay?"

"Possibly. Why do you offer me advice?"

Tyrion favoured him with an enigmatic smile. "Why not? I thought you needed a fresh set of eyes on your dilemma. Besides, I believe Lord Stark will be pleased when you tell him you decide not to take the black."

"Does your lord father want you to take the black?"

The Imp of Lannister guffawed. "And what? Be a further disappointment and embarrassment to the great and powerful House Lannister? Between us bastard, I think he will actually _smile_ if I die before him." Jon could not resist a grin. Tyrion glanced at the Great Hall. "I feel slightly peckish," he declared. He looked down at his now empty goblet, "and I need a refill," he added. "If you don't mind, bastard, I will be leaving you for some nourishment."

"Wait," Jon heard himself say. The Imp arched an eyebrow. "I already asked Mikken – the blacksmith – to forge a sword for Arya. I thought it would a farewell gift, but as I'm not leaving…"

"Give it to her anyway," Tyrion advised. "Say it was meant to be a parting gift. It was nice speaking to you bastard – perhaps we might meet again. I wonder if there are any beef-and-bacon pies left for me!" He nodded slightly at him and ambled away to the Great Hall, whistling a cheerful tune. Jon stared at him until he disappeared from sight. For a split second, Jon wished Tyrion the Imp would stay at Winterfell for a few more days; he was surprisingly pleasant company for a dwarf…and a Lannister.

Arya stared at the slender blade in front of her, her mouth dropped open. She looked up at Jon. "This…this is for me?"

Jon nodded as Arya slowly touched the steel. "This is no toy," he warned. "Be careful you don't cut yourself. The edges are sharp enough to shave with."

She examined the small sword with wonder. "It's so skinny."

"So are you," Jon responded. "I had Mikken make this. The bravos use swords like this in the Free Cities. It certainly won't hack a man's head off, but it can poke him full of holes if you are fast enough. I thought to give it to you as a parting gift, but as I'm not leaving…" He placed the sword in her hands and showed her how to hold it. "Do you know what the first lesson is?"

"Stick them with the pointy end." A doubtful look crossed her long face. "Septa Mordane will take it away from me."

"Not if she doesn't know you have it. Put the sword down first!" he said as she jumped on him for a hug. "All the best swords have names," he added.

"Like Ice." Arya glanced at the blade in her hand. "Does this have a name? Oh, please tell me."

"Can't you guess?" Jon teased. "Your _very_ favourite thing…"

Arya seemed puzzled at first. Then it came to her.

" _Needle!_ "

* * *

 **This is the first Jon POV I wrote and I'm not particularly happy with it. Don't kill me but Jon is not one of my favourite characters. Well...I like him better in fanfictions when he isn't sent to the Wall, married to Margaery or half-Targaryen. Basically I planned from the start that Jon wouldn't go to the Wall, but I wanted _Tyrion_ to persuade him to stay. I think I might try and write another Jon chapter later...maybe. Anyway, the next chapter is a Sansa chapter! That was quite fun to write hahaha. I'll update again in 3-4 days! :) I hope this chapter wasn't too disappointing a read. **


	30. Sansa I

"Our condolences for your father's death." Lady Margaery patted Sansa's hand as they strolled leisurely through the garden. "If you need anyone to talk to, you know you have a friend in me."

Sansa nodded gratefully. After her father's sudden death, she'd received much support – the majority from the Tyrells. She was glad Margaery was to wed Renly. It would be a delight to have Margaery in the family. She almost wrinkled her nose as she thought of her own siblings. Sweetrobin was six yet he still acted like a baby…and their mother did nothing to stop that. Sansa felt humiliated to be the elder sister of a spoiled little boy. As for Alyssa, she only just left the nursery and was no fun at all.

At court, Sansa often found herself in Aunt Catelyn's circle of ladies or in the company of Princess Lyanna and Margaery. When she visited Riverrun from time to time – usually at the behest of Aunt Catelyn – she would have an enjoyable week with her cousins Melia and Rosaline. Rosaline was two years younger than Melia and herself but was also quite enthralled with the songs and stories of love, chivalry, honourable knights and handsome princess that Melia and Sansa both loved. More amusingly, knights and lords would frequently mistaken the three of them to be sisters with their cascading auburn hair and blue eyes.

"…after all, we will be family," Margaery was saying. "It is a pity Willas refused to come to court. It would be delightful for you to meet him before you wed him do you not think?"

Sansa nodded again, her mood brightening considerably. She felt her tummy flutter at the mention of Willas's name. "Tell me more about him," she begged. "I want to know about my…my betrothed."

Margaery smiled indulgently and obliged. "Willas is _very_ handsome and _very_ kind. He is a little old for you but he will be a good husband and love you." She paused. "Regrettably Willas does have a bad leg," she admitted. "He was crippled in a tourney against Prince Oberyn Martell, but he is very studious and educated with a love for breeding the finest hawks, hounds and horses in the realm. Many women would've loved to wed him…even if he is a cripple."

"I'll love him with all my heart," said Sansa confidently. Willas Tyrell already sounded like the perfect husband. It was a pity he was not a knight, but he's the heir of Highgarden. "I've not flowered yet," she said, blushing. "Aunt Catelyn said that I'm still a girl and not ready for marriage."

The worldly Margaery laughed. "Willas can wait a few more years. Besides, I don't think your betrothal had been announced to the court yet."

Sansa shook her head. "It had not. I suspect my father wanted to announce it once the king returned."

Margaery patted her hand. "The king will not refuse your betrothal with my brother. It's a magnificent match for the daughter of the late Hand of the King. I cannot wait for you to see Highgarden! You will love it there! You can eat lemon cakes all day, watch mock tourneys, walk through fields of golden roses…I cannot wait to call you my sister."

"You have three brothers do you not?"

"Yes. Willas, Garlan and Loras. Garlan and Loras are both knights and Garlan is already married to Lady Leonette Fossoway. You will meet her soon enough. She will surely come to King's Landing when you and Willas wed."

"That will be _years_."

"Be patient Sansa. You have plenty of good years ahead of you." Her charming smile widened. "I am five years older than you and am still unmarried! As much as I am looking forward to bearing little stags, I am enjoying my life here at court and at Highgarden. You are more fortunate than I though. You can visit the Eyrie _and_ Riverrun whenever you wish."

"Neither of us were allowed to visit Winterfell though." She sniffed sadly. Even Melia was permitted to go to Winterfell with Lyanna.

"Why would you want to go to the cold North?" challenged Margaery, pushing a curl of brown hair behind her shoulder. "I heard there is still snow there. It is much warmer here in the south; much better for our complexions."

Sansa nodded slowly. Margaery was always right. "Aunt Catelyn wishes me to go to Riverrun again," Sansa confessed, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes. _It is most unladylike to roll your eyes_. "She says Grandfather Hoster has had a turn for the worse and wants me to visit to represent my mother. I don't understand why my mother would not go to visit her own father!"

"Mayhaps Lady Arryn is grieving?" suggested Margaery. "You are grieving too, but her grief is much worse as she was married to Lord Arryn. As the eldest child of Lord and Lady Arryn, it's your duty to help your family in times of need. I most certainly would do anything to aid my own family! If you wish, I can accompany you to Riverrun. In a way your uncle Edmure and aunt Leyla are also mine uncle Edmure and aunt Leyla."

Sansa clasped her hands together joyously. "Oh that would be lovely! Can you really come with me to Riverrun?"

"I don't see why not. One day you must come with me to Highgarden – before your wedding of course – and meet my grandmother. She will be eager to see her future good-granddaughter."

 _The Queen of Thorns? My goodness_. Margaery flashed another easy smile as she caught sight of Sansa's horrified expression. "She'll love you," Margaery assured her. "You are beautiful, accomplished and kind. What more is needed for the next Lady of Highgarden?"

Sansa glanced at Margaery's locks of wavy brown hair, unblemished skin and large brown eyes. "You are more beautiful."

Margaery laughed again. "Nonsense Sansa! Look at you! Ten years old and so pretty already! I wish I have your auburn hair." She sighed enviously. "I suspect if you weren't about to be betrothed to Willas, there will be numerous knights and lords lining up to court you. Imagine the jousts! So many chivalrous knights will compete for your favour."

"They will for you too." She couldn't wait to attend an upcoming tourney. The last time Uncle Robert held a tourney in King's Landing to celebrate Prince Orys's eleventh name day, she had been confined in her rooms due to a chill she caught from a few days' earlier. The only tourney in King's Landing Sansa had went to was the one to celebrate the tenth anniversary of Uncle Robert's crowning. She had been only five years old.

"Do you often sew your own gowns?" asked Margaery, stopping and admiring Sansa's black dress. She took a closer look at the embroidery on her long flowing sleeves. "Are those…falcons?"

Sansa nodded, embarrassed Margaery should see her in an old gown. Alas, it was the only black gown she possessed. She glanced at Margaery who was in a Reach-styled silk gown of black with swirls of dark green. Around her waist was a dark green sash, a golden brooch fashioned in the shape of a rose resting in the centre of it. _I wish I can wear a gown like Margaery's._ She dared not; Aunt Catelyn already hated Margaery's dress sense.

"Aunt Catelyn is expecting me in her chambers," said Sansa apologetically. "I'd hate to be late."

"I do too," agreed Margaery. "Always better to be early than late. Why don't I walk with you to the queen's chambers?"

Sansa smiled and the two of them slowly walked out of the gardens, into the courtyard and finally inside the Red Keep. When she was a child, she had gotten lost in the huge castle a few times, but gradually grew used to it. She was proud to be the sole child of the King's Hand to be born and raised in the Red Keep. She enjoyed her brief visits to the Eyrie and Riverrun but loved King's Landing too. It was her home after all.

"Pardon me my ladies." Sansa and Margaery stopped in their tracks as a short man with a pointed beard and grey-green eyes stepped from the shadows. His lips curved into a smile as he stared at Sansa. "You must be a Tully, my lady," he said, nodding at her.

Sansa shook her head. "No my lord. I'm Sansa. Sansa Arryn."

The man's smile broadened – his eyes did not match his beam. "Ah…the late Hand of the King's daughter. My mistake my lady." He nodded at Margaery. "You must be Lady Margaery Tyrell."

Margaery smiled back. "Indeed my lord. And you are?"

"Lord Petyr Baelish, my ladies. The late Lord Hand recommended me to be the new Master of Coin in the king's small council."

Sansa nodded. She had never heard of him before. Her father never mentioned him and her mother…well, she spent most of her time with Sweetrobin. "May we be of any assistance Lord Baelish?" inquired Sansa in the most grown up voice she could muster.

As if receiving a jape, Lord Baelish smiled. "I'm seeking guidance to the council room my lady. I'm afraid this is my first time in King's Landing and the castle is, well, it's just magnificent!"

"It is," agreed Margaery with a knowing smile.

"I can show you the council room my lord," offered Sansa. Bidding farewell to Margaery, she led Lord Baelish towards the Tower of the Hand. It still upset her when she climbed up the many stairs, knowing her father was no longer there to receive her anymore. A lump formed in her throat. Her father did not shower her or Alyssa or Sweetrobin with gifts like Grandfather Hoster did, but he did spend some of his precious time with them. "Over there," she said, pointing to the great oak doors, one slightly ajar.

"My thanks, Lady Sansa." Lord Baelish dipped his head. "My condolences on the late Lord Arryn's death," he then added.

Sansa nodded. "Thank you Lord Baelish." She waited a second before leaving for Aunt Catelyn's chambers. _I hope Aunt Catelyn will not reprimand me if I am slightly late_. She hurried down the corridors and into Maegor's Holdfast, turning this way and that through the maze of corridors and rooms before reaching Aunt Catelyn's rooms. Spotting her at once, Great Uncle Brynden opened the door and commented, "It is not like you to be late Sansa," as she passed. Sansa blushed as red as a raspberry. She'd inwardly sighed with relief as she saw that there was only Aunt Leyla present in Aunt Catelyn's company.

"Sansa," said Aunt Catelyn warmly yet with a touch of sternness. "It is not like you to be late. Were you with Lady Margaery again?"

Her face burning, Sansa nodded.

Aunt Catelyn shook her head and sighed. "A pity Renly refuses to wed her now. The sooner Margaery leaves King's Landing the better."

"No!" Sansa accidently blurted out. Her two aunts looked at her. "I mean, it is unfair, Your Grace," she said hurriedly. "Lady Margaery is my friend."

"I'm sorry Sansa," said Aunt Catelyn gently. "You're still a young girl and quite impressionable. Lady Margaery may not leave King's Landing today or tomorrow, but when she married Renly, she will be obliged to leave for her new home like you will do when you marry. Do you understand?"

Sansa nodded. _I will surely see her again even after she becomes Lady Margaery Baratheon_. The thought of inviting her over for tea thrilled her. "Will I be allowed to attend her wedding?" she ventured.

Aunt Catelyn shrugged. "Why not? Margaery is wedding the king's brother and there will certainly be grand celebrations." Sansa gasped in delight. Even though she would be sad for Margaery to leave court, she was excited at the prospect of revelling in the wedding festivities. A thought struck her. As Margaery's brother, Willas would surely be there. Margaery did mention he had a bad leg, but maybe he could still dance with her. Who knows? Perhaps his bad leg was not as bad as how Margaery described.

"When will Lord Renly and Margaery wed?" said Sansa excitedly.

"This year I hope," answered Aunt Catelyn. "She is a woman and he had waited long enough for his bride."

"There will be tourneys, feasts, dancing, singing…"

Aunt Catelyn nodded indulgently. "You remind me of your mother," she said almost reminiscently, "when she was younger of course. When Lysa was a little older than you, all she could think about were the songs and the day she would marry a handsome prince or a chivalrous knight. She used to always sneak to the kitchens for lemon cakes."

"My mother still eats lemon cakes now," said Sansa helpfully.

Her aunt laughed. "She will be leaving for the Eyrie soon," she said sadly. "I'd hoped she would stay at King's Landing a little longer but she insisted on leaving in a few days. Your mother grew more attached to the Eyrie…especially now that your brother is in Lord Stannis's care."

"Lord Stannis frightens me. He never smiles. Lord Renly is much kinder; there is always a smile on his face."

"Lord Stannis is a good man, Sansa. He may not smile or laugh as Renly does, but he had done so much for the realm as your father did."

"Lord Renly looks more a proper knight than Lord Stannis."

"Sansa, you cannot judge a man by his appearance. Stannis had killed men; his brother had not. In any case, I did not ask you to come here to speak about Lords Stannis and Renly Baratheon."

Sansa nodded. "Of course, Your Grace." She quietened.

"Your father left quite a detailed will before he died," Aunt Catelyn mentioned, putting her sewing aside and looking at her. "In it he wrote Sweetrobin will be fostered at Storm's End as will Alyssa who is betrothed to Steffon Baratheon. He also stated that your mother be treated with the utmost…"

Sansa's thoughts began to wander. She liked being chosen to be in her royal aunt's company, but at times, she wished she was elsewhere. She could be in the gardens again, basking in a pool of sunlight; choosing from a wide range of silks or selecting dresses with Margaery was another. Margaery always had the nicest and prettiest of silk gowns.

As Aunt Catelyn started talking about the significance of families, Sansa began to imagine herself in Tyrell colours. Green silk matched her locks of auburn hair extraordinarily well. Roses were far more easier to sew on cloth than falcons in any case. When Aunt Catelyn chatted on about her childhood in Riverrun before Robert's war, Sansa envisioned herself garbed in a wedding gown of sky blue and white standing at the altar between the Father and the Mother in the Great Sept of Baelor. Beside her would be her betrothed, Willas Tyrell. She visualised him to look like Margaery: brown haired, brown eyed and always smiling.

"…your father also wants you betrothed."

Sansa nodded automatically. Aunt Catelyn looked surprised. "You are already aware of your betrothal?"

"He arranged for me to marry Lord Willas Tyrell before his death," said Sansa with a dreamy smile.

A frown appeared on Aunt Catelyn's face only to be quickly replaced by a look of pity. "Oh, my dear niece," she embraced her suddenly. "You do not know…your father…before he died, he…he…"

"What?" said Sansa fearfully. "What is it?"

"Your father was worried Sweetrobin would die before he could have sons of his own so he wrote in his will that all formal and informal betrothals he made for you are to be terminated and you are to be immediately betrothed to the next male heir of the Vale…who is your cousin, Harrold Hardyng."

Sansa's eyes widened. " _No_."

"I know it is not a grand match befitting the eldest daughter of the late Hand of the King, but your father was thinking of the Vale. He also requested that as you are the current heir to Sweetrobin, you are to leave to continue your education in the Eyrie under the supervision of your mother and Lord Nestor Royce who he'd appointed co-regent of the Vale."

"I am to be the next Lady of Highgarden…"

"If Sweetrobin catches a chill in the coming winter and dies, you will succeed him as the next Lady of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East. It is more prestigious and powerful than Lady of Highgarden. Your ancestors were the Kings of the Mountain and the Vale and of the oldest and purest line of Andal nobility. Besides, if you marry Harrold, you don't have to go to an unfamiliar land or castle." She patted Sansa's hand. "Thank the Seven you haven't met Willas yet! If you did and fell in love with him, it would be far more difficult for you to leave for the Vale and be betrothed to Harrold."

 _I am already in love with Willas Tyrell_. Sansa could not believe how cruel her father was. He betrothed her to Willas, the heir of Highgarden…only to break it a few hours later and affiance her to a nobody from the Vale! Sansa wanted naught more than to shout and scream, but she was a highborn lady of the Houses Arryn and Tully; ladies do not shout and scream when they do not get their way.

"It was a shock," added Aunt Leyla. "No one expected it."

Sansa nodded tearfully. _Do not cry. You are not a baby. Do not cry._

"I wish you do not have leave," said Aunt Catelyn sadly. "However you must respect your father's last wishes."

Sansa nodded again, her tummy whirling with mixed emotions. "When will I leave?" she said softly.

"In three days. You'll leave with your lady mother."

"Let me stay," Sansa begged. "Please, Aunt Catelyn. Let me stay here! You are the queen! You can order my lady mother to permit me to stay at King's Landing! She'll never allow me to return once we are at the Eyrie! My mother hates King's Landing and I will never see you again!"

"You will Sansa! You'll come back for Margaery's wedding, remember? You'll see me then. When you grow up and marry Harrold, you will always be welcome back here as one of my ladies. You know that! Sansa, think about the time you'll spend with your mother in the Eyrie." Aunt Catelyn caressed her hair. "When she was young, she always wanted a daughter like you. You will now have a chance to bond with your mother."

Sansa bit her lip. How could she tell Aunt Catelyn that talking to her mother would result in hysterics? It would break her heart…

"What is it?" asked Aunt Catelyn, concerned.

Sansa shrugged. "I'll miss you," she said honestly.

"I'll miss you too," Aunt Catelyn said and pulled her into another hug. "You are such a sweet girl Sansa. I will miss hearing you sing. You know so many songs I had forgotten, especially some of my childhood songs from the Riverlands. Write to me when you arrive safely at the Eyrie. Uncle Robert will miss you too. We all will." Aunt Leyla nodded in agreement.

"Why can't Alyssa or Sweetrobin come with me?"

"It will offend Stannis. You will find friends in the Vale, I'm sure of it. Bronze Yohn has a daughter six years older than you. Perhaps you will befriend her. She is a nice girl." Aunt Catelyn thought for a moment. "Lady Waynwood has a ward of eight. Oh what was her name…I think it is Cynthea. Cynthea Frey. She is half-Waynwood through her mother Carolei. Maybe you and Cynthea can journey to the Riverlands together one day."

"Can I at least visit Grandfather Hoster first?" said Sansa timidly. Mayhaps she could still go to Riverrun with Margaery. Aunt Catelyn sighed and squeezed her hand. "No," she said, crushing Sansa's hopes. "We must respect your father's last wishes," she said again. "I'm sorry."

* * *

 **Hehe enter Petyr Baelish! He'll certainly be up to his old sly behaviour now that he is in King's Landing. Should Ned ever tell Jon and Daenerys of their true heritage at one point? I'm curious to hear your thoughts on it.**


	31. Ashara V

Upon setting foot in Blackhaven's courtyard, two squires in tunics bearing the Dondarrion sigil – a forked purple lightning bolt on a black field, speckled with four-pointed stars – hurried to Ashara's meagre host of five men and seven tired horses and informed them Lord Dondarrion desired them in his solar.

Ashara was relieved. Being presented in the Great Hall in front of all of Lord Beric's men coated from head to toe in dirt and dust was not exactly a good way to be introduced to a future good-brother. One of the squires took their horses to the stables whilst the other led Ashara and the five men to Lord Beric's solar. As they headed to Blackhaven's Great Keep, Ashara glanced around her. The black basalt walls were almost as high as Winterfell's and she remembered the deep, dry moat surrounding Blackhaven. _Blackhaven is more of a fortress_ , she thought as the solar door came into view. _Then again, Blackhaven is in the northern Red Mountains near the Dornish border._

The door swung open and Ashara entered, peeling off her black riding gloves as her men followed her in. Sitting on a black chair near a vacant fireplace was a handsome man in black with red-golden hair. He smiled at Ashara. "You must be Lady Stark, my prospective good-sister."

"Lord Dondarrion." Ashara acknowledged him with a nod. "It is good to finally meet you in person."

"I agree Lady Stark. I have heard many great things about you – more from my lady betrothed than your late lord brother. All Lady Allyria could speak of is how much she loves you and how clever and beautiful you are." He eyed her. "I see my lady betrothed spoke true."

"How can you judge I am clever just by sight?"

Lord Beric shrugged gracefully. "You ventured down here from the safety of Winterfell on your own with only five of your lord husband's household guards! I find that clever in a woman."

"Thank you Lord Dondarrion."

"I doubt you are journeying all the way to Starfall to see the Lady Allyria Lady Stark." His lips curved into a sardonic smile. "Am I permitted to know?"

"A potential alliance and a Dayne is needed in Starfall. Allyria wrote to me and she requests my aid. She is no child anymore but she is under the belief that she is inexperienced in the field of politics. I highly doubt our late brother gave her any helpful advice regarding politics and alliance making."

"You do not hold your late brother in high regard my lady."

Ashara shrugged. Lord Dayne was dead; no point dwelling in the past. When he was alive, he cared more for himself than his family. It seemed he'd forgotten all what their father and mother taught them. "How is Edric, my lord?" she said, changing the topic.

"In excellent health Lady Stark. Wine?" Lord Beric offered her a cup of Arbor gold which Ashara accepted gratefully. "He is a little shy but of a good nature. He once won a prize riding rings. Edric enjoys riding."

Ashara smiled. "He must meet my Arya one day. She too loves her horses. He's a good squire to you?"

"One of the finest I ever had. Studious in his books, hardworking and already loved by many of my household. Edric will always be welcome here even after he is knighted and returns to Starfall to rule as its lord. Edric will be delighted to see you again, Lady Stark. He's still pleased over the last name day gift you sent him – a miniature Dawn was it not?"

Ashara nodded. "You have a good memory Lord Dondarrion."

"Please, as we are to be family, call me Beric."

"Very well. You must call me Ashara then. You will be relieved to hear that I will only stay at Blackhaven for a few days. I will not press upon your hospitality any longer than necessary."

Beric waved his hand dismissively. "You may stay as long as you like. I have no intention of asking you to leave. Am I to believe you are travelling to Starfall with the same five men?"

"Yes."

"I see." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps it is time for me to claim my bride after all. Yes, I think I will. My lady, I'll accompany you to Starfall. While you have your own business to attend to, I will wed the Lady Allyria. She is a lady of eighteen is she not?"

Ashara nodded. "She is no longer a little girl."

"Far from it Lady Stark. She is a beautiful, grown woman. Lady Allyria will be an excellent Lady of Blackhaven." The door opened and a boy of twelve with pale blonde hair and dark blue eyes that appeared almost purple entered. He smiled once he saw Ashara. "Lord Dondarrion, my lady aunt," he said, walking towards them. "You called for me?"

Ashara beamed at her nephew. "You have grown!" she exclaimed, standing up and scrutinising him quickly. "I remember when you were a little babe swaddled in blankets! How do you find Blackhaven?"

"A pleasant place to be fostered," answered Edric promptly. "Lord Dondarrion is a kind guardian and I am honoured to squire for him. Preparing the horses is a task I enjoy very much."

Ashara laughed. "I hear you love riding horses too."

Edric nodded enthusiastically. "Lord Dondarrion gave me a small palfrey for my twelfth name day. I named him Lightning in honour of House Dondarrion. Do you want to meet him later, lady aunt? He is very well-behaved." Beric could not resist a jolly laugh. "You should speak to Willas Tyrell," he told his squire. "He is a breeder of fine horses."

"I hope, Lord Dondarrion," said Edric longingly.

"We will accompany your lady aunt to Starfall," Beric continued. "Go and tell the cooks to prepare supper for us – the three of us will dine alone tonight – and have the servants prepare our bags for the journey to Starfall. We will leave in a few days but it will not hurt to have our bags packed early."

"Yes my lord." Edric dipped his head, turned to Ashara and dipped his head again. "My lady." He left, his purple cloak sewn with the white sword and falling star of House Dayne swirling around him.

"I should send my sons here," jested Ashara, nodding at a disappearing Edric with approval. "All the southron maidens will swoon over him once he is of age to enter the jousting lists. You know what they are like with their songs." She was seconds away from rolling her eyes. After hosting Robert, Catelyn, their children and the courtiers at Winterfell, she was heartily tired of hearing the young ladies of the south mention this or that song involving a chivalrous knight or a prince of honour rescuing some poor damsel.

Beric shook his head. "Edric is not cut out to be a jousting champion."

"Surely you underestimate your teaching ability Lord Beric!"

"Lady Stark, you might have misunderstood me. Edric is learning swordplay,

but he does not have the…character of a jousting champion. When he grows up, he will be too gentle and too chivalrous to win a joust. Every time he knocks one of his opponents to the ground, he would always ask them if they are alright. A very thoughtful boy, but weak for tourneys."

Ashara nodded politely. She had many more questions but decided it would be better to ask them at a later time. "I'm a tad bit peckish," she said hastily, "and so are my men. Perhaps…some bread and ale?"

* * *

Ashara almost fell to the hot courtyard ground as a figure hugged her as soon as she dismounted from her horse. Ashara laughed. "What a pleasant surprise," she said, patting Allyria on the back.

Allyria Dayne pulled back and beamed, revealing her pearly white teeth. Her violet eyes met Ashara's. "I am so happy you arrived," she said in a rush. "If you weren't here by tomorrow, I wouldn't know what to do!" She took a deep breath. "I don't want to frighten you in any way or anything, but um…Princes Doran and Oberyn have already arrived."

"They have?" Ashara could not disguise her surprise.

Allyria nodded apologetically. "They arrived a couple of hours ago. I gave them bread and salt and showed them the guest chambers." She glanced and froze. "By the Seven…what is Lord Dondarrion doing here?" She groaned. "He's here for me is he not? He wants his bride."

"Being married is not exactly a bad thing Allyria. Lord Dondarrion is kind and I wager you'll have a happy marriage."

"I know…"

"I'll go and prepare myself for the Dornish princes. You go and entertain your betrothed. Oh, and Edric's with him. He probably wants to see Dawn again." She kissed her sister on the cheek before heading into the castle to her chambers. She hoped she would not see any of the princes on her way.

"You must be Lady Stark."

Ashara silently cursed. Trust the Red Viper to slither up to her like that. With a forced smile on her face, she turned around and nodded at Oberyn of Dorne. Tall with a lined face, thin eyebrows, the black eyes of a sly viper and a sharp nose, he was a man no one forgets. Ashara saw him once at the Tourney at Harrenhal; she had never forgotten the sparks of rage flying from his eyes or his strong and slim fingers itching to reach for his spear the moment Prince Rhaegar Targaryen rode past his wife Elia Martell, to drop the crown of blue winter roses in her lap. Just days before at the great feast, Prince Oberyn played the part of a charming guest; he even danced with Ashara and complimented her beauty.

"Prince Oberyn," said Ashara cautiously.

The Martell prince grinned like a cat. He looked the same as he did seventeen years ago with his still lustrous black hair receding from his brow into a widow's peak. The only difference was the few silver streaks in his hair.

"Lady Stark," Oberyn repeated, grasping her wrist and kissing her hand. "Once I knew you by a different name."

"When you met me my lord, I was a maiden of seventeen."

"Indeed." He released her. "And now you are Lady Stark of Winterfell and the mother of what? Seven pups?" He chuckled. "You and Lord Stark have been quite busy have you not?"

Ashara ignored the comment. "Should you not be resting in your chambers, my lord? You must be exhausted from your journey from Sunspear."

"Actually my lady, we came from the Water Gardens. My brother has a liking for the Water Gardens. Watching children play apparently calms his mind. All he does all day is think." Oberyn chuckled a little. He suddenly seemed to sober up. He met Ashara's eye. "My utmost condolences on your brother's death," he said sombrely. "It was an accident in a joust…my sincere apologies."

"Accidents happen in jousts."

"Indeed."

A thought jiggled in Ashara's mind. _Your brother abhorred jousting and such sports_ , said a voice in her head. _Had you ever seen him participate in any jousting match you witnessed?_ Ashara shrugged the voice away. Whatever the late Lord Dayne did was none of her concern. Brother by blood, he certainly was not a man worth remembering and crying over.

"Is something amiss, Lady Stark?" inquired Oberyn, watching her beadily.

"No," said Ashara calmly. "Nothing at all. I was reminiscing my girlhood here. I was often chased around by my brothers, both now sadly deceased. All I have left of the late Lord Dayne is my sweet nephew Edric. I'm certain you will meet him if you intend to stay for a day or two."

"Ah, Lord Edric Dayne. The future husband of my cousin Matysse." His smile widened. "I cannot wait to meet him."

Ashara smiled uneasily.

"Ah, Lady Stark." Prince Doran Martell of Dorne wheeled himself towards her on his special wheel chair, a blanket wrapped over his knees. Behind him was the broad-shouldered and white haired Norvoshi captain of the guards carrying his long axe in hand. _Areo Hotah_. Prince Doran smiled pleasantly at Ashara. "You've met my brother Oberyn I see."

Ashara dipped her head. "Prince Doran."

"The late Lord Dayne's death was not intentional," Prince Doran said calmly. "I can understand why a grieving sister as yourself would think my rash and rather hot-headed brother was responsible, but I can assure you that your late brother's death was unfortunate. My condolences."

"My lord, I never blamed Prince Oberyn for my brother's death. It was a joust and accidents occur all the time."

Doran nodded. "Now that we have met, shall we discuss Lord Dayne and Lady Matysse Martell's betrothal contract?"

Not knowing what else to do, Ashara led the Martells to the Starfall solar. The last time she set foot in the solar was when she found her father dead, his head resting on the stack of papers as if he was sleeping on a pillow. As she entered, it looked exactly the same as she remembered. If her brother had used it for any of his meetings, he at least had the decency to ask the servants to clean it once in a while. Ashara gestured for the Martell brothers to sit down.

Ashara herself sat down and pulled a piece of parchment, a quill and a pot of ink towards her. "It is generous of you to offer your cousin as the future bride of my nephew," she remarked.

Doran spread his hands. "I want peace. Lady Stark, even if you believe the late Lord Dayne's death is an accident, others may not – especially those who hold a grudge against House Martell."

And what better way to show the world that the Daynes were not in any way angry or disgruntled at the Martells than through matrimony? _Very clever, Doran Martell. Very clever indeed_. Ashara dipped her head in agreement. "You said Lady Matysse was a year younger than Lord Dayne," she recalled. "It is good they are almost the same age."

Doran nodded. "The Lady Matysse is my cousin Mors's sole daughter by his wife, Lady Kiarra of Tyrosh. Since she was a babe, she had been raised alongside mine own children, mostly with Trystane as they are of similar age. Lady Matysse is now ten and you will find her a clever and charming girl. If you so wish, we can introduce you to her in the Water Gardens."

Ashara frowned. "I thought Prince Quentyn is Lord Yronwood's ward?"

"You have a good memory, Lady Stark." Doran smiled. "In the schoolroom it is mostly Trystane and Matysse. If Lord Dayne is not Lord Beric Dondarrion's ward, I would be more than honoured to foster him."

"I hoped Lord Dayne would see his betrothed before their marriage…"

"That can be done, Lady Stark. Any terms you wish to lay down?"

"Starfall needs more men to defend the castle and its lands against possible invading or raiding Reachmen. There is peace now, but how long? With the oaf Mace Tyrell as High Marshal of the Reach, he will potentially send his Reachmen to secure himself more territory. It is high unlikely, but with so little Daynes left and Edric just a boy, Starfall needs stronger defences."

"No Swords of the Morning either," Oberyn mumbled.

" _Oberyn_ ," Doran chastised softly. He nodded at Ashara. "Very well my lady. I will have two hundred and fifty men sent here once the betrothal is signed. Once Lord Dayne and Lady Matysse wed, you will have another two hundred and fifty men here to defend your castle. Will that be sufficient?"

"Quite. There will be a dowry?"

"Of course. Will a thousand dragons suffice?"

Ashara nodded. She was not a greedy woman. Besides, her future good-niece was a Martell; not exactly of a poorer junior line but not a princess either. Daynes had wedded Martells before – only not recently. "Is there anything you wish to put in the stipulations?" she asked.

"Perhaps one of their children will be a ward at Sunspear?" suggested Oberyn helpfully. "It is an honour to be the Prince of Dorne's ward."

Ashara nodded again. A wardship was expected. "Maybe one of your own sons

or daughters can come here as a ward too?" proposed Doran. "I admit, I am quite curious to meet a child of a Stark and a Dayne. He or she would be of Dorne and the North. Hot-blooded and cold." He could not help but smile. "You were sent to the North as wife – why not a Stark for one of my sons?"

"What?" said Ashara and Oberyn in unison. Oberyn gave his smiling brother a strange look. "You must be mad," said Oberyn carefully.

"Mad?" chuckled the Prince of Dorne. "No. I do not think I am mad. Lady Stark, do you not have three daughters?"

"My…my eldest is betrothed," Ashara said reluctantly, "and my youngest is a little girl of five. However, I cannot authorise betrothals for any of my children without consulting my husband. Before I left Winterfell, I made him promise not to marry off our children. It will not be fair if I affiance our children to lords or lordlings without his knowledge."

"Talk to Lord Stark about it," recommended Doran. "It seems you still have a daughter or two left that you can wed off. Why not to a Martell? Starks they may be, they also have Dornish roots."

"I doubt Lord Stark would like the match," warned Oberyn, his dark black eyes flashing. "One of his pups married to a Martell…"

"I think it is an excellent match." Doran's dark eyes met his. "There are plenty of benefits in a Stark-Martell alliance. If you so desire, I will discuss some with you at a later time."

"Perhaps that will be good, Brother."

Ashara had no interest to be an unwilling witness in an upcoming brotherly argument. "I will write to my lord husband," she said swiftly. "I cannot guarantee there will be a betrothal between one of my daughters and one of your sons. My husband may not find the betrothal favourable in his eyes."

Doran nodded. "Very well."

"Nothing will please me more than an alliance between our Houses."

Doran's lips curved into a sardonic smile. "Indeed." His calm and almost placid nature unnerved her. At the aftermath of Robert's rebellion, about all of Dorne cried out for vengeance for the deaths of Prince Lewyn Martell, Princess Elia of Dorne and her little children Rhaenys and Aegon. Ashara had been bitter. She'd lacked a thirst for revenge for the death of her brother Arthur yet was ready for peace. She remembered the flurry of letters exchanged between Jon Arryn and Prince Doran after Oberyn openly declared for revenge. Even now Doran had not demanded Ser Gregor Clegane's head.

"It was quite considerate of Lord Dondarrion to escort his squire and yourself to Starfall," observed Doran.

"Lord Dondarrion is betrothed to Allyria," explained Ashara.

"Ah, your lady sister. Will there be a tourney at Blackhaven to celebrate their grand wedding?" said Oberyn almost sarcastically.

"I suspect Lord Dondarrion plans to wed Allyria at Starfall tomorrow or the next day," replied Ashara. "It will not be long before Lord Dondarrion leaves with another Lord Dayne's other Dayne aunt."

"What of yourself Lady Stark?" said Doran, pressing his hands together.

 _I will not leave until all is sorted and Starfall in safe hands_. "Winterfell can do without me for a few more weeks," said Ashara lightly.

* * *

 **Okay, this is mostly for Clotilde Grace's benefit, but I might as well explain it anyway. Clotilde Grace, you asked about the POVs and why some have Roman Numerals and others don't. I'm happy you asked. Basically, I'm still writing and plotting future chapters and every time I start a fresh POV (Eg. maybe Robb), I don't know if it'll be a one-off or not. If I decide to write another Robb chapter, both the Robb chapters uploaded will have Roman Numerals attached. As for avoiding conflicts, I'm trying not to avoid another one. I unfortunately have a liking for creating family trees and every time (so far) I think of a conflict, I'd think 'ooh make another political match!' or something. However, I am planning something that wouldn't resort right away in another political marriage. Unfortunately it would appear slightly later as I hadn't anticipated writing so many character development chapters in the initial plotting.**

 **As for the inheritance rules question, I'm following male-preference primogeniture for the trueborn children (except in Dorne of course). If Jon is ever legitimised, he'll either be behind all the other Starks and their descendants or not in the Winterfell succession at all.**


	32. Barristan

For the first time in months, Ser Barristan Selmy was trailing behind the king as he headed to the council chamber. Ser Barristan often found himself stationed outside the king's chambers or on a galloping horse with the king and his hunting party in the kingswood. The old knight shuddered at the thought of the latter. He loathed the days he was assigned to guard the door when King Robert decided to transform his royal chambers into a pleasure house.

Barristan nodded at the Blackfish as the oaken doors closed behind him. He'd nodded at Ser Balon Swann earlier when he stood guard at the end of the bridge into Maegor's Holdfast. Glancing quickly around the council chambers, Barristan noticed a number of unfamiliar faces.

A few he vaguely recognised. Speaking quietly to Lord Stannis was the famed Onion Knight – well technically Onion _Lord_ now – in his simple brown and green wool mantle. Barristan had never spoken to him before but admired the man for his bravery and boldness in Robert's rebellion. Standing next to his grinning liege lord Mace Tyrell a short distance away from Lord Stannis and Lord Davos was a thin and balding man with only a few orange tufts of hair left. _Orange hair_ …it was not until Barristan noticed the burgundy grape cluster brooch on the man's cloak that he realised he was Paxter Redwyne, Lord of the Arbor.

Barristan watched as the king's younger brother Lord Renly flitter around the council chamber like a spirited green butterfly, chatting amicably to Ser Kevan Lannister and then laughing at a joke of sorts uttered by Lord Mace.

It was the last two men Barristan did not recognise. The first was a short man of slender build with sharp features: sharp grey-green eyes, a sharp nose and a small pointed beard on his chin with threads of grey running throughout his dark hair. Fastening his dark grey cloak together was a shiny silver mockingbird pin. Barristan wracked his mind, attempting to match the sigils of noble houses with their names – he was failing.

 _Birds…which houses use birds for sigils?_ Barristan frowned slightly. He hadn't thought about houses and their sigils in years. As the firstborn son of the Knight of Harvest Hall, he was given a fine education and he learnt about the great and noble houses of Westeros. As he thought back, he hardly remembered any. As he watched the short man begin a conversation with the eunuch, a flash of black and yellow appeared in his head. House Blackmont! No. House Blackmont's sigil was a black _vulture_ with a pink infant in its claws on a yellow field.

House Corbray? No. Three black ravens in flight, holding three red hearts on a white field. It certainly wouldn't be House Arryn – their sigil was a falcon. Yellow and black struck in his mind again. House Caron! _The man must be a member of House Caron_ , Barristan decided. Before he could study the other man, the king sat down and began the council meeting.

"Your Grace," the lords present murmured. The king dismissed it with a wave of his hand and grunted, "We all know why we are here today. We have spots in the small council to fill. I need a new Hand, a new Master of Laws and perhaps a new Grand Maester if our present one _does not wake up!_ " Sitting beside a snoring Grand Maester Pycelle, Barristan gingerly poked him awake.

"Forgive me Your Grace," rambled Lord Mace, clearing his throat, "but I must ask, _who are you?_ " He looked directly at the Caron man. The man smiled. His eyes did not meet his smile. "I am Lord Petyr Baelish, Lord Tyrell," he said pleasantly. "I am a lord in the Vale and the late Lord Arryn recommended me to come here to King's Landing and be the Master of Coin. It appears the late Lord Arryn was pleased with my work at Gulltown."

"Lord Baelish of what?" demanded Lord Mace, his face red with fury. "I never heard of you before!"

"Lord Baelish of the Fingers, Lord Tyrell," answered the man, his lips still in a curved smile, one more mocking this time. "In my youth I was fostered alongside the queen, Lady Arryn and Ser Edmure Tully in Riverrun. You are more than able to ask them to verify it my lord." His smile only widened. Barristan did not like him at all. He glanced around. Unsurprisingly Ser Kevan did not look too happy either. Then again, he was at the brink of being usurped.

"The small council does not require a new Master of the Coin," grunted Lord Stannis. "The position is already filled by Ser Kevan."

Lord Petyr Baelish of the Fingers turned his mocking smile to the grim Stannis Baratheon. "I was unaware of that Lord Baratheon," he said pleasantly. "You see, I was quite busy with matters involving the control of customs at Gulltown when I received a raven from Lord Arryn. He said he was pleased with my successes at Gulltown and for the good of the realm, I am to journey to King's Landing where I will be named Master of Coin. I did not question the order of my vassal lord, my lord Baratheon. I packed my meagre possessions" – Mace Tyrell snorted – "and I travelled here on the fastest ship from Gulltown."

Lord Stannis's expression did not waver. "The small council does not require a new Master of Coin," he repeated. "The position is filled by Ser Kevan Lannister who is managing the royal treasury successfully." Ser Kevan looked gratified. _He should be_ , thought Barristan. _Stannis Baratheon just complimented him…in front of all the other lords and even the king._

To his amazement, Lord Baelish only smiled more. "Lord Baratheon," he said mockingly. "I hope you did not think Ser Kevan was a competent Master of Coin due to his name of Lannister. I can assure you the late Lord Arryn recommended me on my achievements and successes, not my name. In Gulltown, I increased the incomes tenfold." Lords Mace and Renly gasped.

The king, who was bored up to then, looked at him with sudden interest. "You increased the incomes tenfold you say?"

"Yes Your Grace." Baelish dipped his head at him. "As your Master of Coin, I'm more than honoured to work my magic here."

Ser Kevan frowned. "Your Grace, the treasury is in good shape-"

"By good shape you mean almost empty?" tittered Varys. Ser Kevan flushed with anger. He shot an irritated look at the eunuch who brushed it aside with one of his enigmatic smiles.

"It seems Lannisters shit gold for themselves rather than their king," snorted King Robert, glancing longingly at the cup of Arbor gold in front of Lord Paxter. "I think Ser Kevan, you should return to Casterly Rock. I appreciated your services to the Iron Throne, but it seems our treasury is in need of…a little magic." Ser Kevan had the grace to stand up with integrity, his expression impassive. A great deal taller than a seated Lord Baelish, Ser Kevan was like a looming giant. "Good luck," he told him. With a bow to the king, Ser Kevan Lannister exited the council chamber, his scarlet cloak bearing the Lannister lion swirling around him.

Silence descended once the doors closed shut. "Well," said the king, breaking the layer of silence. "That went well. Baelish is it? I expect to hear excellent news from you in the future regarding the treasury!" He chuckled jovially. Barristan noticed his blue eyes had never left Lord Paxter's wine cup. "Now that is sorted, it only leaves for us to choose my Hand and Master of Laws. A pity Lord Tully fell ill. He was a bloody good Master of Laws as was Ned Stark before him." He sighed and shook his head. "It is hard to find hardworking men these days. Why must the honourable ones die, fall ill or hide away?" No one answered.

"Your Grace," spoke Lord Mace. "I am more than happy to fill in the position as your Hand if it so pleases you." _The Seven Kingdoms will fall if you are ever the Hand of the King_. As Lord Stannis retorted, Barristan's mind began to wander to all the past kings he served.

Apart from King Robert Baratheon, there was King Jaehaerys Targaryen the Second of His Name who bestowed the white cloak on him. He had only ruled for three years before he died after a short illness, but they were three peaceful and prosperous years. King Jaehaerys II had restored order to the Seven Kingdoms, ended the Blackfyre threat and reconciled many of the Great Houses who were unhappy with his father's reign. _Every time a new Targaryen is born_ , Jaehaerys had said, _the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land. Madness or greatness._ He could not have spoken more true.

Barristan almost shuddered as he thought of the Mad King. The horrors he'd ordered…the atrocities…the flames…

"You are already the Master of Ships! What more do you want?"

"I can serve the realm as your Hand," Lord Stannis was saying. "If I am named your Hand, finding a Master of Ships will be simple. We have Lords Seaworth and Redwyne present. Both men will be excellent Master of Ships."

"You must be japing, Brother," laughed Lord Renly. "Who in their right sense will obey you as Hand? Who knows? With such power you may finally grant your own wish and close all the pleasure houses in King's Landing."

Stannis glowered at him. "I do not see why that should concern you. I do not see you sneaking to a whore house at night."

"There will be riots at King's Landing if you do close them," Varys pointed out, rubbing his powdered hands together. "Many men work hard all day and at night, may hunger for a little release…"

The king snorted. "What does a eunuch know of release?"

Barristan shifted uncomfortably. The talk of sex often and other intimate acts often perturbed him these days. The stranger cleared his throat. "Lord Tully sent me here to be Master of Laws in his stead," he spoke. "For those who don't know me, I am Ser Waldon Whent, Lord Tully's cousin by marriage."

"Why did you not say so earlier?" barked Lord Stannis, grinding his teeth. "You could have mentioned it earlier yet you remained silent! If we were questioning a criminal as we speak, would you elect to remain quiet the whole time?" Barristan, Lord Paxter and Davos Seaworth nodded in agreement. "It was unwise to relieve Ser Kevan of his position as Master of Coin," Stannis continued. "Once his brother Lord Tywin hears of it, the Iron Throne would gain a powerful enemy – and for what? Replacing Ser Kevan with a lowly Valeman."

Petyr Baelish did not even flinch. "I never thought you would defend a man who failed in his duties Lord Baratheon. Or could it be because Ser Kevan is now family? What is he…your good-uncle?"

Lord Stannis stared at him expressionlessly. "Lord Baratheon speaks sense," said Lord Paxter hesitantly. "It is never wise to offend Lord Tywin. A Lannister always pays his debts after all."

"Merely words," giggled Varys.

"We will keep Ser Kevan as Master of Coin," said Stannis decidedly. "If he so wishes, Lord Baelish can stay as an advisor…for a short time."

"No," growled the king. "Ser Kevan Lannister did not help increase the royal treasury and Lord Baelish here can." He frowned. "You said you were fostered at Riverrun alongside my wife?"

"Yes Your Grace," replied Baelish.

"Catelyn never mentioned you."

"Oh? Dearest Catelyn. I always considered her a sister."

"She is 'Her Grace' to you," warned Stannis. He glanced at the king. "You wish to keep an insolent man in your council, Your Grace? Even Lord Tyrell would be a more fitting Master of Coin than Lord Baelish. It is still not too late to recall Ser Kevan Lannister." Lord Mace did not seem insulted or offended. In fact, he looked rather pleased with himself.

"Jon Arryn wanted Baelish as Master of Coin so Master of Coin Baelish will be," snarled the king, glaring at him. "Can you not respect the wishes of a dead man, Stannis? Jon Arryn was like a father to me. He raised me, taught me, protected me from the Mad King, fought for me and ruled in my name. Whatever he wrote in his will I plan to grant. If he wanted his daughter married to my son, so be it. If he wanted any of his bastards legitimised – if he had any – so be it. If he wanted one of his bannermen to be given a spot in the small council, _so be it_."

"You think Lord Arryn your father like Lord Stark your brother. What will you do, Your Grace? Journey to Winterfell again and ask Lord Stark to come to King's Landing as your next Hand?"

"If I must."

Stannis snorted. "Did you see Lord Stark in King's Landing? A fish out of water. He will never come back unless there is good reason. Being your Hand will not in any way bribe him south."

"His son is betrothed to my daughter."

"That will not motivate Lord Stark to come south still. As long as there is peace, he will continue living in the North with no care for the south." He paused. "It will be the Princess Lyanna journeying to Winterfell," he added. "The bride travels to her husband's home for the wedding."

The king's frown deepened. "My Lyanna is a princess; Robb Stark is the son of a lord. Young Robb will come south to wed Lyanna. Ser Barristan will knight him and there will be a tourney. After that, the two will wed followed by a grand feast and more festivities. I hope to see a grandchild born in King's Landing soon after they marry." He chuckled. "I look forward to the bedding."

Stannis stared at him, his expression contorted to one of disgust. "Of course you do," he muttered under his breath.

King Robert stood up. It was Barristan's cue to leave. "There is still time for an afternoon hunt!" he announced. _Oh no. Not another one_. "Lord Tyrell! Come and join me today!" Barristan almost laughed. Lord Mace mopped up the sweat that glistened on his forehead. "I…" he stuttered. "I am h-honoured-"

"Excellent!" He gave a final look at Stannis. "Lord Stark _will_ be my Hand," he said threateningly. "Until then, you will temporarily be Hand of the King whether it is a few days or a few years. Don't come complaining to me when you soon find yourself unable to manage Storm's End, Dragonstone and the Hand's duties. You will soon regret it, Brother."

Barristan followed the king out of the council chamber, the Blackfish joining them quietly. As King Robert grumbled to himself and Brynden Blackfish, the old knight's thoughts drifted to the previous set of sworn brothers he once knew. It was in the reign of the Mad King when the Kingsguard was filled with the best swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms. Barristan's weary heart thudded. Fighting in a bloody war was never as glorious as the troubadours sang or the green knights and squires imagine. _You lose more than you win._

The White Bull, Lewyn of Dorne, Ser Oswell Whent, the Sword of the Morning, Ser Jonothor Darry…all struck down fighting for their king's cause – even if the king was mad and unable to rule. Barristan's only other sworn brother to survive Robert's rebellion was Ser Jaime Lannister…who didn't deserve to keep his white cloak after murdering the very king he had sworn to protect.

"I'll have the Kingslayer and Ser Garth Greysteel accompany me on the hunt," the king said, glancing at Barristan and the Blackfish. "Blackfish, you have Queen Catelyn to guard. Ser Barristan, you looked like I sentenced you to death when I announced another hunt!" He chortled. "Must we have Redwyne as an advisor?" he muttered more to himself than to Barristan and the Blackfish. "If he must be part of the small council, at least he should cease bringing his wine in." Hunger glinted in his eyes – only for a second.

"Perhaps Ser Balon Swann should accompany you in your hunt Your Grace?" Barristan suggested. "He is a skilled hunter." Sworn brother he may be, he still did not trust Ser Jaime Lannister.

The king shrugged and guffawed. "You think it will take three men to protect me from a raging boar or stag?"

"I am concerned about your safety Your Grace."

"Lord Commander of the Kingsguard you may be, you are not my nursemaid Ser Barristan." He laughed regardless. "Is Ser Balon brave enough to compete in the hunt against me? Half the lords here are too frightened to even try and shoot a stag I'm aiming my spear at!"

Barristan smiled faintly. He stopped and watched Ser Balon relieve him of his duties. "Have you met him yet?" said the Blackfish promptly.

"Met who?"

"Lady Stark's son, Brandon. According to Lady Stark, Brandon is a sweet boy who is kind to everyone. Apparently everyone but me…and eventually you." Ser Brynden Tully shuddered. "Brandon Stark is kind," he conceded, "but if you have to spend a whole day with him…" He sighed. "Nothing but questions. It seems the king wants him to squire for one of us."

"I do not have many squires these days."

The Blackfish eyed him. "Do you have any squires at all? Jaime Lannister has a number of squires trotting behind him."

Barristan considered it. "When I was a younger man I had a squire or two. I'm pleased to say they all turned out to be remarkable knights. Sadly they both died in the king's war."

"Oh. My condolences."

"It was a pity they had to fight each other." Barristan sighed. He felt old. While the young died in battles, he was still alive. "Think me a senile, mad man, but at times I would wake at night and think Ser Gerold Hightower was still the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard or in the mornings I would be subjected to one or two of Ser Oswell Whent's dark japes. When I teach the young Princes Orys and Ormund in the tiltyard, it reminded me of the afternoons when I fought against Rhaegar as part of his training."

The Blackfish gave him a sympathetic look. "Don't let the king hear you," he warned gently. "You know what he is like when Targaryens are mentioned. Even though there are none left, he still cannot let them go."

 _We all have our demons to battle_. "What happened to that Frey boy you were squiring? Is he at the stables again?"

"He picked a fight with one of Lannister's squires. I was more than happy to dismiss Wendel Frey from my services and send him back to the Twins. I hadn't accepted another Frey squire since." He looked pleased with himself. Barristan could not resist arching an eyebrow and saying, "You River lords must loathe the Freys with a passion eh?"

"You do not want to know, Ser Barristan."

"Must I have Brandon Stark as a squire? I doubt I have the time or strength to teach the boy swordplay."

"I wish the king had not told him that he would squire for one of us. If only he could squire for another knight!"

"I must admit, I am astonished another Brandon Stark would come south. I'm even more surprised to hear that he is nothing like his namesake. Do you think the king ah, persuaded Lord and Lady Stark to send one of their sons south or do you think Lord Stark willingly allowed his son to go south? Eddard Stark is a man who does not forget the past."

"The past is the past, Ser Barristan. Whatever was discussed between the king and Lord Stark is none of our business. What we must be concerned about is who will have Brandon Stark as a squire."

"You are the queen's uncle."

"You are the famous Ser Barristan the Bold."

"If we are trading names, you are the infamous Ser Brynden the Blackfish."

"A name my brother gave to me during a rather heated quarrel. As for you Ser Barristan the Bold…who gave you the epithet?" The Blackfish smirked. "Duncan Targaryen was it not? During a tourney at Blackhaven when you were only a lad of ten and a mystery knight. Don't look so surprised Ser Barristan. It is a tale still told throughout the realm."

Barristan sighed and gave the Blackfish a tired smile. "We can always decline and give him to Jaime Lannister?" the Blackfish suggested.

Barristan shook his head. "No need. I suppose I need a squire these days. I'll take Brandon Stark as my squire, Blackfish." He farewelled the Blackfish, heading to White Sword Tower. Even now as he ascended the stairs, he could still see the ghosts of former sworn brothers.

* * *

 **This chapter was quite fun to write :) Tywin Lannister wouldn't be happy to hear his brother booted from the small council in favour for Petyr Baelish. Hmm...next chapter will be a Ned chapter and I'm planning for the one after that to be a Dany one :)**


	33. Eddard IX

The Lord of the Dreadfort stared at him from his seat with his eerie eyes that were as pale and strange as two moons, paler than stone and darker than milk. Ned twitched uncomfortably in his solar. Even though Roose Bolton was a guest at Winterfell, Ned felt uneasy speaking to the pasty white Lord of the Dreadfort with his guards stationed outside the Winterfell solar.

"You summoned me, my lord?"said Roose softly. "Is there a reason or are you here to discuss the wildlings I captured earlier in the week?" _No doubt you flayed the wildlings_ , thought Ned. The Leech Lord, people called Lord Bolton behind his back. _For good reason too._

"I called you here to discuss your son, Domeric," said Ned calmly. "You spoke to him during the feast did you not?"

"From time to time yes. I also spoke with Lords Hornwood, Karstark, Umber and yourself my lord. I am quite pleased with Domeric's progress in his lessons and swordsmanship. He will be a fine Lord of the Dreadfort when the time comes do you not agree, Lord Stark?"

Ned nodded. "It is wise for the other Northern lords to see peace between our houses…because of the history between Houses Stark and Bolton."

"Indeed Lord Stark. I want naught but peace." He gave him a ghostly smile. "I hope Domeric excels in wits as well as swordsmanship. How does Domeric fare in hunting? He was not invited to the king's hunt."

"That was unfortunate, Lord Bolton. Domeric is an avid hunter" – well, as keen a Bolton could look – "and no animal in the woods is spared if you give him a bow or a hunting spear. I'm certain you are aware for his love of riding, Lord Bolton? He can ride for hours unperturbed. Even my daughter Arya cannot outrace him on every occasion."

Roose nodded expressionlessly. "Any other accomplishments my lord?"

"He has a love for history books. Domeric would spend hours in the Library Tower reading. I heard from time to time he would discuss what he read with the maester. Domeric also plays the harp. My Lyarra would sing when he plays the harp. Sometimes they would play harps together."

Roose nodded again. "I see." Ned wondered if cold Lord of the Dreadfort felt any pride towards his well-accomplished son. It was even stranger telling Roose of his own son's achievements and strengths. "Apart from myself, Domeric is the only other Bolton left," Roose remarked on a sudden whim. "I've oft considered the prospect of remarrying and siring more sons."

"Why have you not remarried then, Lord Bolton?"

The Leech Lord seemed to be in thought for a moment. "I did not think much of it. I'd already wedded twice and yielded only one son."

"Lord Cerwyn has a marriageable daughter if you are interested. I'm certain he will be willing to broker a marriage between you and his daughter."

"Perhaps."

Ned could see more reasons why Medger Cerwyn _wouldn't_ want his daughter wedded to the icy Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort. "I want peace between our houses to be more permanent," he said, slightly changing the topic. "Ever since I took Domeric in as a ward, I considered him mine own son. He could be in truth if he weds my daughter, Lyarra."

Roose's unemotional expression did not change. "We join our houses," he said quietly. "A stronger, more united north."

Ned nodded. "Indeed," he agreed. "We join our houses. Do you consent to the betrothal between your son and my daughter?"

"Yes. When will they wed?"

"In a few years. Lyarra is still a girl of eleven. She and Domeric will marry once she is fourteen." Catching sight of Roose's slight frown, Ned quickly went on. "It's unfortunate their betrothal will last a few years, but as a father, I'm certain you understand the reasons why they cannot wed when Lyarra is so young."

"Of course. I will be honoured to have the Lady Lyarra as my good-daughter – even if it means I have to wait a few more years for a grandchild. I am a patient man, Lord Stark. I can wait."

Ned was relieved. "Excellent."

"When will Domeric return to the Dreadfort? He spent more time here than he ever did in the Dreadfort. It will be in his best interest to know the Dreadfort well and to meet the household. What sort of Lord of the Dreadfort will Domeric be if he knows naught about his seat and its surroundings?"

"Domeric was taught his Bolton history in his lessons, Lord Bolton. However, I must agree with you. As the other Northern lords are still present, I will declare Domeric and Lyarra's betrothal tonight. If it suits you, perhaps Domeric and my daughter will return with you to the Dreadfort for a few months. I want Lyarra to know her future home before her wedding. I'll send a number of my most trusted men to accompany them and you."

"Very well. I will send a raven to the Dreadfort for chambers to be prepared. I hope the Lady Lyarra will find the Dreadfort satisfactory."

"Lyarra will not complain," Ned assured him. "You have no objections in her bringing her direwolf do you?"

"None at all. However, if the direwolf attacks any of my men or servants, I will kill it without hesitation." He held up his hand before Ned could protest. "You are my liege lord and the Lady Lyarra is your daughter, but I will not tolerate a beast attacking my household and retainers at my seat." He smiled coldly. "It will be a quick death," he promised. "If you so wish, I will send you the direwolf's head. By the old gods I swear I will not flay it." His soft laugh sent shivers rushing down Ned's spine. Roose rose from his seat and dipped his head. "I will consider taking Lord Cerwyn's daughter as my bride," he said, turning to leave. "In fact, I will go and speak to Lord Cerwyn now. Good day Lord Stark."

He left. Before Ned could exhale with relief, Arya came in, her hair a rat's nest and her woollen dress coated in mud and melted snow. Without Ashara, Arya no longer looked the part of a proper highborn Northern lady. Hopefully Lyarra and Daenerys could help clean Arya up before the Northern lords leave.

"Arya," Ned acknowledged.

"What was the Leech Lord doing here?" said Arya curiously.

" _Arya,_ " Ned reprimanded. "He is Lord Bolton to you. I doubt Lord Bolton will be pleased to hear you calling him the Leech Lord. Do you know what he does to smallfolk, knights and servants who displease him?"

"He flays them."

" _According to the rumours_. Lord Bolton would certainly rip their tongues out swiftly. Anyway, I did not call you here to discuss Lord Bolton. I heard from Septa Mordane that you have been missing more lessons than usual." He looked at her sternly. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Arya shifted and looked at her feet. "I don't want to go to anymore sewing or embroidery lessons," she muttered. "It's pointless! I don't want to be a highborn lady anymore! I want to be a knight like Uncle Arthur! Bran is lucky he can go to King's Landing and be a squire. I want to as well!"

"You're a girl Arya, not a boy."

"So? I still know how to hold a sword and use it. Oh let me learn alongside my brothers, Domeric and Theon! Please!"

Ned assessed her with a quick scrutinising stare. She was too skinny; a steel sword would be too heavy for her to wield and who would dare spar with her? Besides, all the other lads began their training much earlier than she had. Maybe Arya would be happier if she was shipped off to be fostered with the Mormonts of Bear Island. Jorelle Mormont was a year older than her and Lyanna Mormont a year younger – perhaps they would be good friends given time. No. Ashara would not want Arya sent far away. An idea occurred to him…

"I will think about it," Ned told Arya who brightened up instantly. "Do not go running off dreaming about it though. I doubt there are many knights up here in the North willing to train a girl. If I find you a tutor, you must promise to attend all your lessons from now on – even if you do not like them – and try to act like a proper lady of your rank. Do you understand me? I want you to look the part of a highborn lady of House Stark when I announce your sister's betrothal tonight – I expect to see you dance too. No insulting others like Jeyne and if I catch sight of you flicking peas…you will not only lose the chance of having an instructor but I will have you confined to your chambers for a week where you will do nothing but sew until Septa Mordane is satisfied and pray."

Arya scowled ferociously. "Do I have a choice?"

"Do you want an instructor in swordsmanship?"

Rolling her grey eyes, Arya sighed. "Very well. When do you think I'll be able to start training? Tomorrow?"

"Not for another month I think. I still have to find you a trainer and you must show me your good behaviour."

Arya looked thoughtful. "Can you promise me something, Father?"

"What is it?" said Ned curiously. His wild daughter stared at him in the eye. "I never want to marry. Promise you will never wed me off like cattle."

"Arya, you are only nine-" He stopped. Anything could happen when you are nine years old. A betrothal could be made or a sudden fostering. "I cannot do that Arya," he said as gently as he could muster. "You are born a Stark of Winterfell. I cannot indulge you in everything. As a Stark noblewoman, you are expected to be wedded to a great lord for the good of the North. Robb will wed Princess Lyanna to create a closer bond between the North and the south and Lyarra will marry Domeric Bolton to end all potential hostilities between Houses Bolton and Stark as well as strengthen the North. One day a good match will be made for you and you must play your part as the bride."

"No." Arya shook her head vigorously. "I am not a cow. I will not be bartered to the highest bidder for a stupid alliance."

"Marriage alliances can save your life."

"Or drag you into an unwanted war."

Ned flinched. "You are clever," he said to her. " _Think_. The farmers grow crops for us and the smiths make swords. What do they want in return?"

"Safety. Protection."

"What is the best way to give them that without wasting any soldiers' valuable time on sentry duty throughout the vast North?"

"A strong alliance with neighbouring lords." Ned nodded. Arya didn't look at all happy. "How will that be done?" Ned pressed.

"Marriages," mumbled Arya. She looked alarmed. "You will not marry me off to Theon will you?"

Ned laughed. "Is that what you are worried about, Arya? You don't want to be married to Theon? Why would you think I will marry you off to Theon?" He grew serious. "Had he done something to you? Something…bad?" A hundred unhelpful images of cocky Theon appeared in his mind.

Arya frowned. "No. If Theon even touches me, I will slap him. It's just…in a few of my lessons, Maester Luwin said that fostering helps establish loyalty and ties between noble Houses and is good. He also said that if a lord is very pleased with his ward, he will most likely marry him to one of his daughters. Or nieces if the lord doesn't have any daughters," she added.

Ned nodded. "Very good. Fosterage is extremely useful in cultivating alliances and friendships with other lords. However, it doesn't mean they always marry off their wards to their daughters. King Robert and I were both Lord Arryn's wards when we were boys. Lord Arryn had no daughters, but he had Waynwood nieces from his sister Lady Alys. Lord Arryn often said he was proud of me, yet he never betrothed me to any of his Waynwood nieces. King Robert was not affianced to any of them either."

"That is why King Robert married Queen Catelyn and you wedded Mother."

"Aye."

Arya bit her lip. "Domeric is your ward and you betrothed him to Lyarra," she pointed out. "You are happy with Domeric?"

"I think him as mine son already. He and Lyarra know each other and the lords of the North expect a Northern match for her. You know that don't you? Theon is more a hostage than ward and no one will want him married to you. If Robert is convinced, Theon might be lucky to marry a Northern lady. When the time comes, I will find you a worthy husband. You won't have to leave the North."

"What if I want to?"

"Where do you want to go?"

"I want to see King's Landing at least once and go to Dorne. Mother is Dornish and I have never been to Starfall before. I also want to see Cousin Edric and visit Bear Island. The women there learn to _fight_ like men. Do you think Mother will agree to the idea of fostering me at Bear Island? It will strengthen the Mormonts' loyalty to us wouldn't it? Even better, Lady Mormont has no sons to marry me off to." She looked pleased with herself.

"The Mormonts have always been loyal." He darkened as he remembered the traitor Jorah Mormont. "Do you not have a sewing lesson to attend to? We have an agreement, remember?"

Arya grumbled and shuffled out eerily similarly like Maester Luwin. If it was a training session, Arya would have bounded out like a rabbit. Longing for a bite of fresh air, Ned escaped his solar and headed to the godswood for a minute or two of peace. To his dismay, Maester Luwin shuffled towards him.

"Not now maester," Ned groaned.

"What better time than the present, Lord Stark?" The maester glanced at him swiftly. "Before the royal party left, I heard your conversation with the king – by accident of course."

Ned sighed. He knew he would discuss it with Maester Luwin one day. "I don't know what to do," he confessed. "King Robert agreed to legitimise Jon on the sole condition that I return to King's Landing and resume my old position as Master of Laws. Robert was even quite willing to put Jon in the Winterfell succession at the end, behind the girls. Jon will be delighted – it had always been his dream to be a true Stark. I desired it too…"

"You do not want to go south, Lord Stark?"

"No. Never again. I have no wish to return to that snake pit. The old gods had never favoured the Starks in King's Landing. For Jon's sake though…I want all my children happy. Even Jon."

"You are a father Lord Stark, but also the Lord of Winterfell. For most it will be an honour to serve as Master of Laws in the king's small council, but from what I learnt about the North, it is less of an honour."

"Lords like Greatjon Umber will think me too much of a southroner to go back south again. They think my duty is to the North and I frankly agree, but Robert is also my friend as well as my king." He sighed heavily. "I fear what will happen to the Seven Kingdoms now that Lord Tully is on his deathbed in Riverrun and Jon Arryn dead. Both are and were good and honourable men. Without them, there will be no one to prevent bitter arguments between Robert and Stannis and the small council will collapse."

"What will you do Lord Stark?"

"What would you do if you were in my position, maester?"

Maester Luwin considered it. "The old gods deemed it fit for Jon to be a Snow yet they gifted him with fine swordsmanship. They must have plans for him. It is clear to me that they think Jon will rise to the occasion despite his bastard status. I would not go south just for Jon to be legitimised."

"Jon will never marry well as a bastard and all his children will bear the name of 'Snow'. How is that a good fate for a child?"

"Life is not all about marrying well and siring children Lord Stark. Perhaps the old gods want Jon to be a knight of the Kingsguard."

Ned laughed. "That is what Bran wants."

"When does His Grace expect a reply?"

"As soon as possible." Ned wished the Tourney at Harrenhal never occurred. It would've been better if he and Lyanna had not attended…yet it was the grandest tourney in years, no _decades_. Ned cursed Rhaegar for impregnating his sister. If he restrained himself, his family would still be in power, Lyanna would be Lady of Storm's End and married to Robert, Catelyn wedded to Brandon (who would still be alive) and Jon would not be a bastard.

"It will be best for Jon not to know of this," Maester Luwin advised. "Not all the boys his age will be so understanding."

"Aye. I dislike keeping secrets."

"At times it is needed Lord Stark."

Ned could not agree more. For so many years, he wanted to tell Daenerys and Jon of their true heritage; he saw the looks Jon gave Daenerys and she returned to him and it chilled him to the bone. It was…unnatural for an aunt and nephew to think of each other in the Targaryen way. Even Targaryens do not always find it usual to love one's uncle or one's niece. Ned wondered if it would be better to locate a suitable wife for Jon. In the North there were not many bastard girls (or bastards in general). _There are more bastards in the Vale_ , he thought. _Robert has a bastard daughter three years Jon's senior. No doubt there will be other Stones in the Vale too. Maybe a merchant from Gulltown will consent to wedding one of his daughters to Jon – he is of my blood after all._ His lips twisted into a smile. That was another secret kept from the rest of the world.

"I should not have allowed Bran to go south," Ned said aloud.

"Is there a reason my lord?" said the maester patiently.

"We should have received a raven once Jon Arryn died. If I heard about it any earlier, I would never have allowed Bran to go to King's Landing. I thought that if Jon was Bran's guardian, Bran would be safe. Robert loves his hunting and love- making more than he loves or cares about children. I cannot trust him to keep an eye out on Bran."

"Lord Stark, perhaps you are worrying too much about Lord Brandon? He is a sweet boy and people easily love him. Besides, the queen is a Tully. _Family, Duty, Honour_. She will care for Brandon as if he is her own due to her strong friendship with Lady Stark. Moreover, Brandon is friends with Prince Ormund."

"I hope the king does not foster Bran with the Tyrells."

"Fostering with the Tyrells is not all a loss, Lord Stark. If Brandon impresses Lord Tyrell's widowed mother, it may establish an alliance between House Stark and House Tyrell. That itself will lead to stronger trade routes between the Reach and the North which will be quite useful for the upcoming winter. A long summer usually leads to a long winter my lord."

"Aye. The Tyrells will never wed one of their own to a younger son."

"No. Brandon is too young for Lord Tyrell's daughter, but surely there will be other Tyrells of lesser branches willing to wed Brandon, say if he is knighted. The southroners love their knights more than Northerners do."

Ned nodded. "Highgarden is said to be the centre of chivalry. We of the North have a habit of surviving winter, yet a long winter will not be easy. More supplies will certainly be a welcome sight. However, it is still summer and there is time to negotiate with the Riverlands as well. The Riverlands is closer than the Reach – it will be easier to trade food for warmer garments and so forth."

"Ser Edmure Tully's heir is eleven years of age I believe. If Lady Lyarra is not set to wed Domeric Bolton, she would be a suitable wife for young Hoster. You do have Lady Arya, Lord Stark. Mayhaps she will be the next Lady of Riverrun while Lady Lyarra becomes the future Lady of the Dreadfort."

Arya would not be happy at that idea. "I will write to Ser Edmure and Ashara," Ned said reluctantly.

Maester Luwin nodded. "Very good my lord."

* * *

 **I kept forgetting to upload this chapter haha, my bad. I start the new semester of uni tomorrow, but I'll still keep writing :) I won't abandon this story any time soon...hopefully.**


	34. Daenerys II

For the last few days, Dany dreaded nightfall. The moment she set foot in her chambers to sleep, fear would overcome her and she would end up lying on her bed clutching a dagger she had taken from the armoury.

Before she received the dragon pendant, Dany enjoyed being lulled to sleep by the whistling of the wind. Now she loathed it. Every night she would pull the dark curtains shut, lock the door and place her chair against it and crawl onto her bed, finding the smallest of comforts in holding the little dagger. Yesterday Daenerys had snuck back into the armoury when the boys were busy in the Library Tower and took another dagger – for safety measures of course. She had hidden it under her plump pillow while kept the first on her bedside table.

During the day, Daenerys stayed away from the shadows and kept an eye out on the servants. The last thing she wanted was one of them discreetly giving her another dangerous piece of jewellery.

 _Creak._

Dany's eyes flew open…again.

 _Creak._

Silently she reached for her dagger, her fingers visibly shaking. She wished she was consumed with dreams rather than fear. After she heard a third and fourth _creak_ , she moved slowly off her bed and tiptoed to the locked door, her dagger in hand. Dany quietly removed the chair and raised her dagger. Breathing deeply, she slowly turned the key…

Nothing.

Frowning, Dany poked her head out and looked around.

Nothing.

Unable to sleep, Daenerys closed her door and locked it. She paced around her room like an imprisoned animal as she tried to clear her head. _There is nothing to be afraid of_ , she told herself as she shakily lit a candle. _There is nothing and no one out there after you. Who would want you dead? You are only a bastard after all._ She carefully lit a second candle. The dark and shadowy corners of her chambers didn't soothe her fears at all.

Dany stopped pacing and crossed the room to her vanity table. Looking at the mirror used to fascinate her but now she feared seeing the reflection of a killer rising up behind her – even in daytime. "There is nothing to fear," she said aloud. She was safe in Winterfell. No one would dare invade the great castle.

 _Creak._

Sheer terror struck Daenerys's heart. Her grasp around the grip of the dagger tightened as she pulled a furred cloak around her. Grabbing the closest of the two already-lit candles, she hid the dagger in her cloak pocket. Swiftly unlocking the door, she fled to seek refuge in the closest room.

Jon's room.

Careful not to wake the others, Daenerys tapped hurriedly on Jon's door. _Oh please open it_ , she thought nervously, glancing over her shoulder. _I don't want to go and wake up Lyarra – she will think me a cowardly fool_. A second or two later, the door opened and Daenerys was greeted with the sight of a sleep-deprived Jon, dark shadows under his eyes.

"I hope you have not been up all night reading," Jon yawned. He'd been more irritable of late since he decided not to take the black. He scratched his head. "Is there something I can do for you?" It sounded sarcastic.

"I heard noises," said Dany lamely.

Jon raised an eyebrow. "This is not a jape is it?"

"No! Do you think I would wake you up if it is? Please believe me!" Dany was desperate enough to batter her eyelashes even though she knew it had no effect on Jon – especially when he was in a sullen mood.

Jon sighed and opened his door. Daenerys almost tripped over her own feet as she rushed in. She closed her eyes for a second. She opened them and looked at Jon and their surroundings. She suddenly realised Jon was shirtless. Dany felt her cheeks blush with heat in the dim light and looked away as Jon grabbed an old tunic and groggily pulled it over his head.

Daenerys looked around. Jon's room was as bare as hers. In one corner of the large room was his bed with a table beside it like her own chamber. Across them was his wardrobe and a trunk and between them and his bed were two windows as high as her own. Now she thought of it, most of the bedchambers at Winterfell looked pretty much the same.

"I'm so sorry," said Dany, perching on one of Jon's two chairs, the second one layered with clothes, "I did not mean to wake you up. I mean it. I was trying to sleep but then I started hearing the creaking again. I had the curtains closed and my door was locked, but I still heard it. I even have a dagger now for protection. I mean I have two, but I left one under my pillow. It'll be strange if I came carrying both daggers." She bit her lip as Jon did not look any more impressed than he did when he opened his door.

"Are you sure you did not hear a direwolf pattering across the corridor?" said Jon wearily. "Mayhaps an escaped dog?"

"No," said Daenerys at once. "It sounded…human."

"You said you heard it before?"

Daenerys nodded. "Last night and the night before."

"Did you tell Lord Stark about this yet? He would certainly do something to stop it if you tell him. Did you see any shadows under your door? Whispering or shuffling? Anything apart from creaking?"

"No."

Jon sighed. "I believe you," he said finally. "It sounds stupid, but you aren't one to lie. Tell Lord Stark about this after breakfast and we will do something about it tomorrow night. We will plan it with care and hopefully you will be able to sleep soundly again. Here, you can have my bed."

"What about you?"

Jon tapped the ground with his foot. "It feels comfortable." He walked to his wardrobe and pulled out another furred blanket and a pillow which he dropped on the floor. Dany helpfully handed him her cloak – it was much too short for Jon but he accepted it anyway. "Try and get some sleep Daenerys," said Jon, stifling another yawn. "It won't do you any good if you fall asleep on your porridge and bread tomorrow morning."

Dany laughed and snuggled in the blankets. She inhaled deeply. Everything in here carried Jon's scent. She closed her eyes and slowly drifted off to the realm of deep sleep and dreams…

 _Creak._

* * *

Unable to consume any bread, beans, fried eggs and bacon, Daenerys excused herself from the Great Hall early, saying she was still suffering from ailments that accompanied her moon blood. _I must come up with a new excuse_ , Dany thought as Lyarra gave her a questionable and rather suspicious look. _I will not have moon blood forever this month._

Dany nervously left the Great Hall and went to the Great Keep. Her clenched fists ran with cold sweat as her heart pounded faster. She tentatively knocked on her uncle's solar door.

"Come in."

Taking a deep breath, Daenerys entered, wiping the sweat on the sides of her grey dress. She closed the door behind her. Uncle Eddard glanced up at her from the mountain of papers on his desk. On top of a smaller pile of parchments was a plate containing a half-eaten slice of bread and an untouched rasher of bacon and wedge of cheese. Uncle Eddard nodded for her to sit down. "Help yourself to any of this," he said, indicating at his unfinished breakfast. He studied her for no less than a few seconds. "Is there anything I can do for you Daenerys?"

"Two matters actually," said Dany nervously. What if Uncle Eddard chose not to believe her story? The more she thought about it, the more foolish and false it sounded. Uncle Eddard nodded slowly. "Go on."

"I've been hearing noises at night," said Daenerys honestly. "Usually its wind, but there's also been creaking outside my door." And Jon's, she wanted to add. "I thought it would be a servant or direwolf outside, but I usually hear the creaking very late at night, sometimes past midnight."

"Is there a reason why you were awake so late?"

"I'm afraid, Uncle."

Uncle Eddard nodded understandingly. "I see. Have you told anyone else at all about this? Perhaps Robb or Jon?"

"I told Jon."

"I see. I'm more concerned about your health Daenerys, and I'll have Maester Luwin look at you, perhaps give you something to help you sleep. I will also have two guards posted outside your door tonight."

"Thank you Uncle."

"You said you had two matters to discuss?"

Slightly more hesitant, Daenerys drew out the dragon pendant and placed it on her uncle's table. "I think this is partially – or fully – responsible for the creaks outside my door," she said quietly, pushing it towards Uncle Eddard. "I know that I should have mentioned it earlier, but I didn't know what to do…I was so scared and worried. It was during the feast when someone handed this to me. The boy knew my name too."

Uncle Eddard examined the pendant, his expression growing more impassive by the second. "Does someone want us in trouble with the king?" said Daenerys worriedly. "I know this is the…the Targaryen sigil."

Uncle Eddard said nothing. He looked at the pendant again before glancing at her strangely. "You assumed correctly," he finally said. "Someone who supported the Targaryens want trouble in the realm and what better way than to break my friendship with the king?"

"Why didn't they send this pendant to one of your daughters?"

"You are Ashara's illegitimate niece. We all know who your father is but only a select few – if any – knew who your mother was. The best way to sow seeds of doubt and trouble is through a bastard. They gave this to you in hopes that you will doubt your heritage which also gives them a chance to accuse us of betraying the king and harbouring one of Targaryen blood in Winterfell."

Daenerys sighed with relief. "What do we do with it?"

"Do not worry about that Daenerys. You did the right thing coming here and telling me about this. Now that you told me, I am aware there is a traitor in mine own household." His expression grew dark. "I will find out who that person is. Do not worry about this matter, Daenerys. No harm will come to you."

"Thank you Uncle."

"Is there anything else you wish to discuss?"

"What'll happen to me now? My father's dead and my mother…she clearly did not want anything to do with me." Daenerys felt her uncle's deep gaze fall upon her. "What will happen to me now?"

"You will remain as my ward," answered Uncle Eddard. "Nothing will change. I will find you a husband soon and you will eventually become a mother, unless by any chance you want to be a septa?" He looked at her intently.

Daenerys almost laughed. Why in the gods would she want to be a septa of the Faith? There were rarely septons and septas in Winterfell and Septa Mordane did not encourage the prospect of becoming a septa. "I think I will prefer the joys of motherhood than to be a septa," said Daenerys, failing to hide a small smile. "Will I remain in Winterfell even after my marriage?"

Uncle Eddard shrugged. "Possibly if one of my household knights is willing to marry you. Whatever the case, you'll always be welcome in Winterfell." He gave a tired wave at his papers. "Anything else, Daenerys? As you can see, I have dozens of papers to deal with. Did you eat yet?"

"I'm not hungry."

"You might be soon. Try and eat a slice of bread at least." Daenerys nodded. "I will talk to Maester Luwin," Uncle Eddard continued. "Hopefully you will be able to sleep well tonight."

"Thank you." Daenerys stood up and crossed to the door. She paused. "What'll you do with the pendant?" she said nervously.

"Don't worry about it," her uncle told her. He added darkly. "I swear by the old gods and new, it will never land in your hands again."

* * *

"If we were using live steel, I would have killed you." Jon held out his hand and Dany grudgingly took it as she pulled herself up, brushing the dirt from her dress. She picked up the wooden sword Jon had knocked down with his own and poked him with it in the arm.

"More like wounded me," corrected Daenerys. She handed the wooden sword to Jon. "Here. I'm done for today."

Jon scoffed. "Already? I know you had a pretty rough night, but come on! You cannot last another round? Even Arya can fight more."

"I'm not Arya!" Dany snapped. Jon flinched. "I'm sorry," Dany muttered. "I'm, I am really sorry Jon."

"Is it the creaking still?"

Daenerys sighed and nodded. "I spoke to Lord Stark about it and he said he'll post guards at my door tonight and talk to Maester Luwin about concocting me a sleeping draft or something. It's just…I'm worried about you too. Last night as I was drifting to sleep, I heard the creaking. It was at your door."

"My door?" Jon tossed the wooden swords onto a pile of wooden swords near the armoury. "I admit I heard creaking outside my door last night, but I thought it was you adjusting to my bed. Did someone follow you to my room? Did you hear anyone following you? I know you were frightened, but surely you would have felt or heard someone tailing you."

"I…I didn't hear or see anything. It was dark."

"I see." Jon was thoughtful.

Daenerys was instantly wary. "What is it?" Whenever Jon was plotting, which was extremely rare, he bore the same scheming expression Arya did. Only Arya conspired more. _Much_ more.

"I was just thinking," said Jon, his dark eyes glittering like the string of onyxes strung around Queen Catelyn's neck, "what if we were able to catch him? Tonight we will do nothing. If you hear the creaking again, we will know that the person is sly and stealthy. If Maester Luwin does prescribe you a sleeping draft, perhaps it will be better if you do not drink it – if you want to help catch this person. We can always leave it to the household guards-"

"No," Dany interrupted. "I want this person caught."

Jon nodded. "We must tell Robb, Domeric and Theon-"

"No!"

Jon frowned. "I thought you want to catch him?"

"I do, but they will never believe me…"

"They will when I tell them. If you want, I'll leave Theon out of this, but he's an excellent marksman and we may need one nearby if it turns out there is a killer prowling around Winterfell attempting to kill you."

Daenerys sighed. "Oh very well, Theon can hear about it too. I hope he doesn't treat it as a jape." She suspected the heir of Pyke would. From innocent words to kicking heads, Theon Greyjoy found everything a big joke. "How will you be able to convince them I am speaking the truth?"

Jon smiled mysteriously. "I have my ways."

"We need to tell Arya," decided Daenerys. "I suspect this man is quick on his feet and silent; Arya is swift and small. She might be useful if it comes to chasing him down the corridors in the dark. Lyarra said that Arya could sneak like a cat into her rooms at night and steal something without her knowing."

"Very useful," Jon agreed. "I'll go and talk to Robb, Domeric and Theon. You should talk to Arya. Do you think we should tell Lyarra about it? It would not be fair if she finds out both Robb and Arya knew about it. I doubt Lyarra will report our planning to Lord Stark."

"Lyarra wouldn't. She's like a sister to me."

Jon nodded. "I'll see you later. Try and eat something will you? I know you did not eat anything even though you told your septa you ate bread and bacon. You won't do us any good if you faint on the way to your chambers." He frowned a little. "Are you supposed to be in a sewing class?"

Dany shrugged. "What's the point? The best I can do is serve Lyarra and move with her to the Dreadfort once she marries Domeric. At least you have the chance to go south and be a knight."

"You can always come with me."

Daenerys scoffed. "And do what? Sew your clothes? You are a Snow. I cannot exactly sew grey direwolves on your tunics. Sorry," she added hastily as Jon gave her a long glare. "I'll…go and find Arya." She shot Jon another apologetic look and hurried into the Great Keep to Arya's chambers. She opened the door and to her surprise, Arya was not there. _I hope she is not hiding in the crypts again_. Once in a desperate attempt to escape the hawk eyes of Septa Mordane, Arya had fled to the Winterfell crypts and hid there for hours, eventually falling fast asleep at the statue of Lyanna Stark's feet. Uncle Eddard had been so worried and sent orders for his men to begin search parties…until Arya emerged from the crypts with a hungry, growling stomach.

Deciding to ask Lyarra, Daenerys headed to the schoolroom. She skidded to a halt as she caught sight of a bored Arya sitting beside Lyarra, stabbing her piece of cloth with a needle.

" _Arya?_ "

Before Dany could say another word, Septa Mordane swooped upon her like a hawk to its prey. "Daenerys Sand," she said with a disapproving frown. "Explain yourself if you will. Ever since Lady Stark left, you have been missing a number of your lessons with the excuse of illness."

"My sincere apologies Septa Mordane," said Daenerys politely. "I promise it'll never happen again."

The septa gave her a suspicious look. "Very well. If you miss another lesson, I will have no choice but to inform Lord Stark. Take a seat Daenerys. The girls have decided to embroider house sigils today. As you are…a special case, I suppose to honour your lord uncle and lady aunt, it will be good if you begin with the Stark sigil. If you need help, look at Lyarra's. She has almost finished and it is looking quite lovely." She smiled at Lyarra.

Daenerys quickly sat down on the empty chair beside Arya and scrambled to grab a needle, thread and cloth. It would be more appropriate for her to sew a white direwolf on grey…if she was Lord Stark's bastard like Jon. She glanced at Arya and was astonished to see her knotty hair untangled and pulled into a small elegant bun with a thin braid descending from it. Moreover Arya was in a clean dress with not one spot of dirt or mud.

"Do you like my direwolf?" asked Arya, showing Dany her embroidery. Dany had to admit it looked relatively good. "I thought of Nymeria while I was sewing," said Arya, pleased with herself. Daenerys glanced around. The sharp-eyed septa was occupied with complimenting Lyarra and Jeyne Poole was absent. Daenerys lowered her voice. "Arya, can you keep a secret?"

* * *

 **This was an interesting chapter to write. At this rate, I doubt Dany will know her true heritage any time soon.**


	35. Catelyn V

After a morning of sewing and listening to idle gossip mostly chattered by the younger ladies, Catelyn finally put down her needle.

"I am going for a walk in the gardens," she announced, standing up. "You're all dismissed for today. Lady Leyla, walk with me." Alerie Hightower had retired to Highgarden after her son Garlan's marriage to Lady Leonette Fossoway, stating that she needed a rest from court. Even though Catelyn found her daughter Lady Margaery too alluring for her own good, she missed Alerie's company.

"It is a lovely day," chirped Margaery, folding away her embroidery and neatly tucking a wavy curl of brown hair behind her ear. "Do you mind if I accompany you and Lady Leyla in the gardens Your Grace?"

Yes. "Not at all." Catelyn smiled at the Tyrell girl. The two of them and Leyla made their way to the gardens. Catelyn's smile widened as she stepped outside and was showered with a shaft of sunlight. She loved summer. Catelyn detested the day a white raven would sit on the window ledge of Grand Maester Pycelle's chambers declaring the arrival of autumn. Springs and autumns were oft shorter compared to summers and winters. Catelyn shuddered. So far it had been a very lengthy summer…winter would be long too.

"Are you cold Your Grace?" inquired Margaery, watching her with a concerned expression. How long had she been watching? Catelyn wondered. She shook her head. "Not at all, Lady Margaery. Is that a new gown? I do not recall you wearing it before." She smiled thinly.

Margaery beamed and straightened her silky green dress embroidered with a dozen golden roses. Her brown hair was pulled back today, the majority of it tied in a braid that cascaded down her back. "It is never wise to wear the same gown twice at court," she answered.

Catelyn only smiled. On more than one occasion she had donned a few of the same dresses. She thought it was pointless to have gowns made only to be worn once. "My father plans to host a tourney at Highgarden," Margaery said casually. "I imagine he yearns for it to rival the tourney at Harrenhal. A pity Sansa had left for the Eyrie. She would love to attend a grand tourney."

"Perhaps she'll still attend your father's tourney," murmured Catelyn. Fifteen days had passed since Lysa and Sansa left for the Eyrie and she had not received a raven from them since. The last thing she heard from them was that they were resting in Runestone for a day or two under the hospitality of Bronze Yohn. Lysa is probably still in mourning, Catelyn thought. She may not have loved Jon Arryn, but he is the father of their children.

"Your Grace," said Leyla uncertainly. "This may be a strange request, but I beg your permission to allow me to leave court for a few weeks. My good-father is ill and I must be at his side – and my husband's."

"Of course." Catelyn nodded. "I wish I can be at my father's side too, but I am needed here at court." Family, Duty, Honour. The Tully words had echoed in her head more often these days. As her father's daughter she should be at Riverrun; as her husband's wife, she should remain at King's Landing.

"Your Grace, your father may wish to say his last words to you," said Margaery sweetly. "If mine father was on his sickbed, I would never leave Highgarden until he recovers…or otherwise."

Catelyn's lips tightened. The sooner the rose of Highgarden was wedded and bedded to Renly the better. She wished Robert never bestowed the lordship of Rainwood upon the Onion Knight. Davos Seaworth had already been rewarded with a knighthood – was that not enough for a smuggler? Rainwood had been the inheritance promised to Renly and that was robbed from him. The Tyrells would never wed their precious Margaery to a landless lord – even if he happened to be the brother of the king.

"Lady Margaery," she said, forcing herself to smile. "Can you please give me a moment alone with Lady Leyla?"

"As you wish Your Grace." Margaery bobbed a quick and graceful curtsey and disappeared behind the hedges. Catelyn waited a few minutes. "My father needs me at Riverrun," she whispered, a lump forming in her throat. "Edmure writes to me almost every day and he said our father is still bedridden and his mind…by the gods Leyla, his mind…"

"King Robert will understand," said Leyla softly. "You went to Edmure and my wedding without him. Surely he will understand the urgency of your presence in Riverrun at such a grave time like this. He is your husband after all." Robert was Robert first, a king second, a husband third and a father last. Stannis would no doubt have added Robert was a father fourth and a brother last. It used to break Catelyn's heart when she would visit the royal nursery alone and the children would ask, "Where is Papa?" As a loyal wife, she would lie for him on numerous occasions. Papa is busy ruling the Seven Kingdoms, she had said multiple times. Robert had been occupied with hunting or wenching to visit his own children. Catelyn hated lying to her children.

Catelyn nodded. "I will speak to Robert tonight. Lysa should know about this. I will write to her at once. She would hate hearing about Father's dire illness after he…if he does not make it."

"Will that be wise Catelyn? You said the last time you heard from Lady Arryn and Lady Lysa was when they rested at Runestone. We don't know where they are now! Lord Arryn may have trusted Lord Nestor, but we know nothing about him! What if your letter falls in enemy hands?"

Catelyn said dryly. "Enemy hands? We are not at war, Leyla."

"That is true, but what if someone like the Lannisters crave more prosperous lands and hear of Lord Tully's…ailment? I am worried for Edmure, Catelyn. He is sweet and kind, but when it comes to war…"

"The Lannisters will not attack the Riverlands. To do so will earn the wrath of Robert. He will not have his children's ancestral lands taken away from them. I must write to Lysa."

Leyla nodded solemnly. "The River lords do not like me," she confessed. "Last time I went to Riverrun with Edmure, they glared at me as if I was in some way responsible for Lord Hoster's illness. I swear on the Seven I did nothing to earn their animosity. I prayed for Lord Hoster's speedy recovery, I gave Edmure sons and daughters and I gave food to the poor."

"Do not concern yourself with it Leyla. Many of those lords wanted their own daughters to have wedded Edmure. Some may be offended that my father chose a lady of the Reach to marry Edmure rather than a lady of the Riverlands. If it is the Freys bothering you, ignore them. That is what my father always said. He told me that before he was betrothed to my mother Minisa Whent, Lord Walder Frey offered his eldest daughter Perriane – now married to Ser Leslyn Haigh – to be his bride instead.

"Father also mentioned that when Lysa and I were born, Lord Frey offered a dozen of his sons and grandsons as potential husbands for us. He stopped after my father declined twice. When Edmure was born…you should've seen the great number of Freys at Riverrun's doorstep everyday!"

"Lord Frey must desperately want a Tully good-son or good-daughter."

"He'll never get one." Catelyn patted Leyla's hand. "Don't fear. The River lords will warm to you eventually. I'm certain of it."

* * *

"Is something amiss, Uncle?" Catelyn noticed Uncle Brynden pace in front of the empty fireplace for the third time in the hour. "You normally do not pace as much as you did today."

Uncle Brynden stopped. "My apologies my queen."

"Are you thinking of Father?" Her uncle looked at her and sighed. "We were as close as you, Lysa and Edmure when we were boys. After the war…we quarrelled more than we laughed. The War of the Ninepenny Kings that is," he added before Catelyn could frown in confusion. "Even though we acted more like enemies than brothers, I am still worried about Hoster."

"We are family after all."

"Aye. I wonder if he still holds a grudge against me for refusing to marry and begin my own line of Tullys."

"You never told me why you refused to marry Bethany Redwyne."

The Blackfish stared at her, his eyes sad and reminiscent. "I had hoped you'd forget about it," he murmured.

"If you don't want to talk about it-" He shook his head. "No. The famous tale of my rejection of Bethany Redwyne will be remembered in the centuries to come by Tullys, Redwynes and Rowans alike. You might as well hear the bloody truth of the matter." He sat down on a chair opposite Catelyn. "You must know that all I wanted in my youth was to be a knight," began Uncle Brynden. "The last thing I thought about was taking a wife and becoming a father. I was a younger son and knew it was Hoster's duty to wed and conceive children to continue the Tully line. I didn't think I needed to as well. I thought life was quite good – peace, blooming friendships with other knights…then it all changed.

"Hoster came to me one night after I'd supped with Lord Darry whom I had squired for in my youth. He told me that Ser Mathis Redwyne, his wife Lady Alys Beesbury and their daughters will be visiting Riverrun in a few days' time. I wasn't fooled for a single second. I knew what Hoster was planning but I didn't think much of it." He gazed at the window. "I didn't think much of it at all.

"The day before the Redwynes were scheduled to arrive, I went on a hunting trip with a few Vances and Shawneys, hoping to avoid meeting the Redwynes. I had no desire to marry back then. I felt free as an unmarried man without duties and responsibilities. I had tasted freedom and longed to cling to it. Being tied to a wife and children was not what I wanted.

"Anyway, I went hunting but it was cut short when a stag rammed its antlers into Martyn Vance's chest, his blood spraying all over me and two Shawneys. We ended the hunt and went our separate ways home. Before I did, I journeyed to Wayfarer's Nest and returned Martyn's body his family. Shortly I left for home. I had forgotten all about the Redwynes. Imagine their looks of horror and shock as they saw me stomp into Riverrun, my clothes still speckled with Martyn Vance's blood." He chuckled. "I did not give them a promising first impression." Brynden laughed again. "Well, to Ser Mathis and Lady Alys that is. To their eldest daughter, I was a knight. Her knight." He quietened.

"What happened?" Catelyn said softly.

"She thought I was out defending the poor from bandits," said Uncle Brynden absently. "It was only later when I told her the whole truth. She believed me. The Redwynes ended up staying for a month rather than a week. Between me and her, my hunting adventure became some sort of private jape. When I told her I was to go hunting, I was in truth sent to deal with bandits or thieves. When I informed her that I had to save some smallfolk from outlaws, I went hunting. Of course the latter of the two was rarer."

"What did she look like?"

"Oh she was beautiful Catelyn. As beautiful as the Maiden herself. When she moves, her orange hair wavers like a flickering flame. Her eyes were as green as fresh grass in spring and she was fair…so fair. Over the days we spent together, I forgot all about my disdain for marriage and wanted nothing more than to marry her in the sight of the gods and live with her in a keep of my own.

"Hoster and the Redwynes were delighted. The point in their visit was to forge an alliance with House Tully after all. Hoster was mere months away from being married to your mother Minisa and I was the only Tully of Riverrun left. I didn't care for the pending Tully-Redwyne alliance – all I wanted was to marry the lady I loved. Nothing else mattered to me." He chortled. "It makes me sound like Lysa, but it was the truth of it back then."

The Blackfish suddenly darkened. "And then it ended. Merely a day before Hoster could ask Ser Mathis for his consent in my betrothal to his daughter, I was called to sort out a foolish dispute at the Twins. That day I was supposed to take Lady Alys and her daughters riding in the forest near Fairmarket; Hoster's future good-brother Walton Whent went with them in my stead." He clenched his fists. "I should never have went to the bloody Twins! If I hadn't…" He shook his head almost despairingly.

"Uncle Brynden?" prompted Catelyn.

"They were attacked by a band of drunken knights," muttered her uncle, his face white with fury. "I'll never forget them. The Redwyne ladies, Ser Walton and a few other knights were on their way back to Riverrun when they were…they were ambushed by the drunken knights. Ser Walton was killed first and the other Tully knights next. Lady Alys was raped – she would later die from the injuries those drunkards inflicted upon her – and so was her elder daughter. The younger one escaped with the help of a cowardly Tully knight. When I returned home, it was utter chaos. Those drunken knights were captured and hanged. I wanted all of them to suffer more but they didn't."

"What happened to Lady Alys's elder daughter?"

"She survived…but carried one of her rapists' child. No one but Hoster, Mathis and I knew about it and we agreed to keep it a secret. She almost died when she gave birth to a stillborn child. Mathis Redwyne thought it was for the best and to hide the shame, he made his daughter become a silent sister. A month afterwards, I received news of her death."

Catelyn placed her hand over his weathered one. "I'm sorry Uncle. You never saw her after she became a silent sister?"

Uncle Brynden shook his head. "I had no idea where she was. I don't think her father even knew where she went once she joined the order."

"What was her name?" Her uncle was silent. "Melissa," he said finally. "Melissa Redwyne. During our month of courtship I would call her Lissa – solely between us of course. Ser Mathis Redwyne often said she was not as beautiful as his niece Olenna which is quite odd, as he and his brother hardly got along."

Catelyn could not resist a tiny smile. "Like yourself and Father."

"Aye. Like myself and Hoster." He shuddered. "All our loud feuds and quarrels stemmed from what happened next. I still remember our first bitter argument as if it was yesterday. A few days after we heard of Melissa's death, Hoster went up to me and told me he will request Ser Mathis's younger daughter's hand for me. I would not have it and refused. I loved Melissa and I had sworn by the Seven that I would never marry. Hoster was furious. He shouted, 'why does it matter if you wed Melissa or Bethany? A Redwyne is a Redwyne!' I never forgave him for that. What was worse was that Bethany looked so much like Melissa I could not even look at her at supper."

"Bethany…Bethany had a sister?"

"Aye. Not many knew about Melissa. The Redwynes know how to keep their mouths shut when it suited them. If Melissa had lived, they would have sung of her beauty and goodness. She bore a bastard and was forgotten. I still wonder if Bethany remembers her elder sister. After what happened at the forest, I offered to marry Melissa immediately, but Hoster said no. I suspected even then, he had decided Bethany would be a better choice as a good-sister for himself as she was still 'pure' and 'untouched'."

Catelyn was silent. Poor Uncle Brynden…

"I should not have told you that," said Uncle Brynden gruffly. "You should not be burdened by tragic tales of the past. Your Grace, may I have permission to be relieved of my post as sworn shield? Only for a few hours. I'll have either Garth Greysteel or Ser Arys Oakheart replace me."

"Of course." Catelyn nodded instantly. "I understand how difficult it was for you to tell me about Melissa and Bethany. You should not be burdened with the duties of protecting me and Robert. You are a knight of the Kingsguard. You had sworn to defend the king, not me. I will ask Edmure to send me a few knights to be my sworn shields."

"No, do not bother Edmure. Not at this time."

Catelyn nodded. "I hope Father recovers," she said softly. "I cannot even hope to imagine what Riverrun will be like without him. If Grand Maester Pycelle was not so feeble and frail, I would have sent him to Riverrun to help Maester Vyman heal Father. Father had done so much for the realm. He does not deserve to be bedridden with a lingering illness."

"Aye. I will inform you if there is further news from Riverrun." He bowed his head. "I hope it is good news." He stood up, bowed and walked out the door, his white cloak swelling around him. Catelyn watched him leave, his story echoing in her head. The troubadours sing of him rejecting Bethany Redwyne when in truth he was in love with this Melissa Redwyne. At least her rapers were hanged. Lysa would not believe it if our uncle tells her it were knights who raped his first love. Lysa was a mother yet still loved her songs.

Desiring fresh air, Catelyn left her chambers the second time that day. She was tired of the stifling city and yearned to return to her childhood home. As Catelyn walked aimlessly through the labyrinth of corridors, her eyes sparked with fury as she came face to face with one of Robert's bastards.

"Your Grace." Edric Storm swept a graceful bow once he saw her. He looked up and smiled charmingly at her. Catelyn's lips tightened. Since the bastard could walk and talk, courtiers have often said he was the very image of his royal father – apart from the large Florent ears. Catelyn hated it. She had birthed Robert two trueborn sons who looked more like a Baratheon than the bastard Edric Storm would ever look. Her Orys and Ormund bore Baratheon names and had jet black hair and deep blue eyes. They both looked more Baratheon than Tully. The only Tully features Catelyn spotted on her sons were the high cheekbones she, Lysa and Edmure all inherited.

Bastard, Catelyn wanted to spit. "Edric," she said stiffly. Today the bastard was dressed in dark blue silks with shiny silver buttons running down his tunic and a black leather belt around his waist. "I heard you celebrated your eleventh name day a few days ago with Renly."

Edric's smile broadened. "Indeed Your Grace. My father gifted me with a small warhammer similar to his own. Uncle Renly showed me the spiked warhammer Father used to kill Rhaegar Targaryen. I hope one day when I am big enough, I'll be able to wield it."

If it wasn't for the honourable Jon Arryn, you would not even be here. "I think not," Catelyn said coldly. "When he is deemed ready, Orys will wield his father's great warhammer. If you're fortunate, you may inherit one of my husband's dirks, daggers or swords. He has many in the armoury."

"As you say Your Grace," said Edric Storm almost cheerfully. How in the Seven can a bastard be so happy? Catelyn nodded curtly and turned another corner, her head held high. To Catelyn's sheer dismay, she found herself walking alongside Robert's other bastard, the one he had begotten from some common wench in a tavern or alehouse. Catelyn disliked him more than Edric Storm.

"Where are you heading, bastard?" said Catelyn sharply. A commoner had no business wandering the corridors of the Red Keep unless he was a servant. The bastard jerked up, his blue eyes littered with panic.

"Y-your Grace!" he stammered, bowing clumsily. How could one not know his manners after being raised in King's Landing since childhood? Catelyn assumed it was the fault of his lowborn blood. "I…I am heading to the forge. I find solace there from time to time."

Of course, thought Catelyn savagely, you still love the forge. What did Uncle Brynden say? Oh yes, ever since he took that lowborn bastard to the forge, he fell in love with it. She had not bothered to remember his name with her father's illness and her uncle's sad story swarming in her thoughts. "We all have special places of solace," she said aloud. The bastard glanced at her, confusion written all over his face. Catelyn suppressed an aggravated sigh. Uncle Brynden did say that the bastard was often confused.

* * *

 **This was one of my favourite chapters to write! I hope you liked my version of why the Blackfish never married and his feud with Hoster :) Unfortunately I might not be uploading chapters as quick as I did before as I've been quite busy at uni lately and typing a chapter during tutorials wasn't as easy as it once was...**


	36. Davos II

He glimpsed the Fat Flower of Highgarden's seemingly aggressive glare at the corner of his eye. Ever since both Davos and Mace Tyrell were placed in the small council as advisors, Lord Mace had done naught but stare at him or alternatively clear his throat and ramble.

Davos hated politics and would've wanted nothing more than to return to his wife's side…if it wasn't for Lord Stannis. Stannis wanted his blunt advice so here he remained in the snake pit of lies and facades. After five council sessions, Davos had not grown close to any of his fellow councillors. The Grand Maester did not care less about Davos as all he did was mumble and sleep; Mace Tyrell despised his mere presence in the council chamber; the Spider and Petyr Baelish were at each other's throats already and the king (when he showed up) and Lord Renly seemed to find him…amusing.

"Ser Kevan will be reinstated in the small council."

"His Grace already decided that I am to be his Master of Coin," said Baelish a little too smugly. He dipped his head respectfully at the bored King Robert. "It'd been the late Lord Arryn's wish too."

Stannis stared at him for a whole minute. "Ser Kevan Lannister will be the new Master of Laws," he said gravelly, looking away. "Without him, we will gain Lord Tywin as a powerful enemy – one we do not have the time or the means to deal with. Ser Waldon, as you were recommended by Lord Tully, you will have a place in the small council as advisor. If you prove to be unhelpful, I will not hesitate to remove you from the small council."

 _Blunt and straight to the point_ , thought Davos. _Stannis is never one to waste time with flowery words._ Thankfully Ser Waldon Whent had the sense to remain silent and nod calmly.

"Shall I summon Ser Kevan for you my lord Hand?" simpered the eunuch, his powdered hands clasped together. He tittered. "I happen to know where Kevan Lannister is at this moment."

"As do I," said Baelish slyly.

Stannis gazed at them with disgust and impatience. "No need," he said shortly to their disappointment. "I will meet him in person myself once this meeting is at an end. Lord Baelish, as Master of the Coin, which you are fond of reminding me, have treasury matters to concern yourself with. Lord Varys, we'll not waste your valuable…skills in this." He turned his attention to the new Master of Ships, Lord Paxter Redwyne. Davos was relieved he did not scowl.

"A number of warships are about to be made in a couple of days, lord Hand," Lord Paxter informed him. He unrolled a large scroll of parchment and pushed it to Stannis's view. Davos glimpsed it for a second. Warship plans. Stannis gave it a quick glance and nodded. "Good," he said, pushing it back to Paxter. "Lord Davos will inspect them once they have been built."

Mace Tyrell frowned. "Lord Hand," he began, puffing his chest again. "I don't think that is necessary. Lord _Redwyne_ is the Master of Ships, not Seaworth. Lord Redwyne does not have to have his ships examined by a lowborn knight who has no knowledge of ships-"

"Nothing?" Renly interrupted with an idle laugh. "Lord Tyrell, you think our Onion Knight knows nothing about ships? You must be mistaken! If Lord Davos had no knowledge of ships, how did he come by his name?" Mace flushed as the king chuckled. Varys tittered again.

"That was no fault of mine!" Mace Tyrell declared. "I was-"

"I am not interested in discussing the past," Stannis broke in. "If all you plan to do bicker about your failures in the past, leave now." He marched over to the oak door and yanked it open, surprising Ser Balon Swann who was guarding it. King Robert roared with laughter. Mace mumbled inaudibly and remained in his seat. Expressionlessly, Stannis returned to his chair. "Is there anything else to discuss at all?" he inquired stiffly.

"My little birds bring me more news from Dorne," spoke Varys, rubbing his hands together to Davos's annoyance. "It seems Prince Doran had left the Water Gardens for Starfall with his brother Prince Oberyn."

"Oh? Starfall is House Dayne's seat."

"Indeed my lord Hand."

"Lady Stark is also at Starfall is she not? She is a Stark now, not a Dayne. What business could she possibly have with Princes Doran and Oberyn Martelle? I was under the belief Lady Stark went to Starfall for a wedding."

"Well my lord Hand, considering that the only other Daynes of Starfall left are young Edric Dayne and the future Lady of Blackhaven, perhaps it was for the best that Lady Stark represented House Dayne's interests in whatever matter that is being discussed in Starfall between the Daynes and the Martells."

"What matter, Lord Varys?"

The Spider considered it for a moment. "There was an accident in a tourney at Sunspear," he explained. "Apparently Prince Oberyn accidently killed Lord Dayne or injured him severely in a joust." He directed his enigmatic smile at Mace. "My lord Tyrell, I believe you can support me in this. I believe Prince Oberyn injured your heir in a joust too."

"That bloody Red Viper," grumbled Mace Tyrell, nodding vigorously. "It's quite like him to wound one's heir – or cripple him. If I was Lady Stark, I'd demand a goodly compensation for Lord Dayne's death."

"It was a joust," Ser Barristan the Bold reminded him. "Both Lord Dayne and Prince Oberyn were aware of the risks before they participated and it was by an unfortunate chance that Lord Dayne died from his wounds. Lady Stark will have no right to complain or demand compensation Lord Tyrell."

"Thank the Seven for that," Davos thought the king mutter.

"I wasn't aware of the tourney at Sunspear," remarked Renly. "If I was, I might have went for a joust or two."

"You are always welcome to participate at the tourneys at Highgarden," Mace told him. "And you of course Your Grace," he added hastily, "and uh you too, my lord Hand. Everyone is welcome at Highgarden."

"Except Oberyn of Dorne," Stannis grunted. Davos almost laughed. Mace Tyrell looked slightly confused.

"I suspect there will be a match for young Lord Edric Dayne," Waldon Whent commented. "Princess Arianne Martell is too old for him though."

"There are other available Martells," Varys pointed out. "Prince Doran has a number of young, attractive Martell cousins. Lady Stark should be delighted that her nephew will marry the Prince of Dorne's cousin. Who knows? Perhaps Prince Doran has another cousin able to wed one of Lady Stark's daughters." He giggled again. "Oh, but Prince Doran has sons around the same age as Lady Stark's pretty daughters. Perhaps we will bear witness to a Stark-Martell wedding."

"The Red Viper has bastards," King Robert said suddenly. "I have two that I've acknowledged and Ned Stark has a bastard too. Well, he has two if you include that bastard niece of Lady Stark's." Davos stared at him. The king hardly spoke in council sessions and now he was implying political matches! "I'd like to see Ned's grim bastard married to one of those so-called Sand Snakes," chuckled the king, his dark blue eyes glittering with amusement.

The other lords chuckled, some out of politeness while others like Lord Renly laughed until tears ran down his cheeks. Davos forced himself to smile. His eyes met Stannis's. Stannis had not smiled at all. Stannis waited until the laughter died down. "A match between bastards is not a bad idea," he said decidedly. "It'll most certainly bind the Martells closer to us which will be advantageous. A betrothal between a trueborn Baratheon and Martell would be better."

"Arianne Martell is too old for Prince Orys," Mace objected at once. _Typical of him_ , Davos thought. Stannis frowned suspiciously at him. The bumbling fool of Highgarden took no notice. "Arianne of Dorne is too old for Prince Orys," Mace said again. "She is said to be a seductress, a harlot, a wanton!" Even King Robert had leant forward with interest. "Arianne Martell does not have the qualities to be the future queen," Mace finished off.

"There have never been good relations between you Tyrells and the Martells," grumbled Stannis. He suddenly smiled. Davos froze. It wasn't much of a smile – more of a grimace. "Lord Tyrell," Stannis said unpleasantly. "If you think Princess Arianne Martell is unfit to be my nephew's bride, who do you think will be good enough to wed him? Your own daughter?"

"Well," blustered the Fat Flower, "my Margaery is closer in age to Prince Orys than Arianne Martell. Margaery is accomplished in music and dancing, a maiden of course, beautiful and familiar with the ways of court."

"Oh? I believe Lady Lyarra Stark is the same age as Prince Orys." King Robert snorted with laughter and even Paxter Redwyne shook his head with a smile at his bristling liege lord.

"A Stark!" Mace sounded astonished. "Lord Hand! You must be japing! A Stark is not fit to be the future queen! They are of the North! A wild terrain-"

"Enough, Lord Mace," Stannis cut in icily. "I heard enough from you today."

"Do not fear, Lord Tyrell," said Renly cheerfully. "Instead of my dear nephew, you will have me as your good-son." Mace Tyrell had the sense to smile and nod at him. Stannis's eyes swivelled to his younger brother. "It is time you wed Lady Margaery," he decided. "You are a man and Lady Margaery is no longer a young girl. There have been no uprisings since the Greyjoy Rebellion and now is a good time for you to commit to your promise and marry your betrothed."

"Aye." King Robert nodded in agreement. _He must be in an extremely pleasing mood to agree with Stannis today_. "You might enjoy your wedding night, eh?" He winked at his brother roguishly. Mace Tyrell looked offended. "I'm sure Stannis enjoyed fucking his Lannister wife," the king continued. "I expected him to only father one child, but he had six children!"

Stannis glowered at him. Davos repressed a sigh. It seemed certain that the Seven had deemed the Baratheon brothers never to get along.

"I will not have my daughter wed to a landless lord," declared Mace. Stannis looked back at him. "Lady Margaery and Lord Renly have been betrothed for a good many years," he said stoically, "and they will be wed."

"I am her father Lord Hand! When I agreed to the betrothal, Lord Renly was to inherit the lordship of Rainwood!" He glared at Davos. "Lord Renly's inheritance was robbed by this upstart Onion Knight! Lord Hand, the betrothal between Lord Renly and my daughter Margaery will be terminated if Lord Renly is not given a significant lordship of his own!"

"Lord Tyrell-" cautioned Paxter but the king interrupted. "No need Lord Tyrell. Renly will have his inheritance – a better lordship in fact. Your lovely Margaery will marry the Lord of Dragonstone."

* * *

"Lord Baratheon, I am more than willing to resign the lordship of Rainwood," Davos said once Grand Maester Pycelle shuffled out of the council chamber. "A knighthood was more than satisfactory Lord Baratheon."

"It is not for me to decide," said Stannis, grinding his teeth. "I don't even know why the king invited Mace Tyrell to the small council in the first place. All the Fat Flower cares about is his precious Highgarden! If only Jon Arryn was alive and Hoster Tully here. Without those dutiful men, I get a council full of imbeciles and lickspittles." He muttered a curse under his breath. Scrunching up a small piece of paper in his hand, he glanced at Davos. "If I had my way you would be the new Master of Ships," he said bluntly. "Though it pains me to admit Paxter Redwyne is a more suitable candidate for the position in the eyes of the court, I still despise the Reach lords. I always will."

"Milord Hand," said Davos hesitantly. "May I speak truthfully?"

Stannis snorted. "Why else are you here, Lord Davos?"

"For the good of the realm, ensure there is peace with the Tyrells. Lord Paxter Redwyne will be an excellent Master of Ships, but you must trust him-"

"I will never trust him."

" _Try_ , lord Hand. At least in the council sessions. As you well know, Lord Paxter owns the Redwyne fleet which contains at least two hundred warships. The only other with a powerful fleet is House Greyjoy. It will be a disaster for the king and the realm if you offend Lord Paxter."

"And having Lord Paxter as the Master of Ships is a wise move? I think it quite a foolish one. As Master of Ships, Redwyne is in charge of virtually the Redwyne fleet _and_ the royal fleet. A portion of the royal fleet is anchored at Dragonstone to protect it from any blasted Targaryen pretenders that may be hiding and biding their time across the Narrow Sea." He darkened. "And giving Renly Dragonstone, what a joke. He does not have the experience to manage it."

"You have been the Lord _Protector_ of Dragonstone for many years my lord. As you are the Hand of the King now, perhaps the king thought it would lessen your burden if your brother Lord Renly is the Lord of Dragonstone." Davos frowned for a second. "Milord…did you say Targaryen _pretenders?_ "

"No doubt foolish exiles with tiny drops of Targaryen blood in their veins. The eunuch Varys is a dubious man, but he has his methods of extracting secrets and vital information all over Westeros and even in Essos. Before he died, I heard Jon Arryn muttering feverishly, most likely to himself. It was a couple of hours before his death, but he mentioned Targaryen pretenders over and over. A pity he didn't say any names, but he must've been ill greatly to say such nonsense." Unless his final act before his death was to protect the Seven Kingdoms.

"Does the king know?"

Stannis shrugged. "In either case, I had the eunuch investigate and he revealed to me that he did hear rumours of a Targaryen pretender in Essos."

"Milord!" Stannis pocketed the crumpled piece of parchment and picked up the diagrams of the warships Paxter Redwyne helpfully left behind. "Varys may be lying or he might be telling the truth," Stannis said flatly. "I don't know why he might lie, but I will be keeping a closer eye on that wily eunuch. After Robert was crowned king, I led the fleet to Dragonstone and captured the last two remaining Targaryens: a baby girl and a young boy. By the honourable Lord Stark's words, the babe died during a night in the black cells and the boy was accidently killed by one of the jailers after he would not cease screaming. _There are no Targaryens left_ , Lord Davos. None at all."

"What of those descended from the Blackfyre line? They have not set foot in Westeros since the War of the Ninepenny Kings."

"Bah. There are no male-lined Blackfyres left. Only those descended from the female lines perhaps, but no one will want a Targaryen back on the Iron Throne except for their loyalists."

"Elia of Dorne had a son-"

"Who died. We all saw the bloody remains. However, Varys had not led us on a wrong path before. He'd hinted at a looming Greyjoy rebellion and we ended up crushing the Iron Fleet, killing two of Balon Greyjoy's sons and Lord Stark taking the third as a hostage at Winterfell."

"Milord Hand, must I scrutinise the warships made under Lord Redwyne's watch? The Reach lords will not appreciate it."

"Yes. I want you to check the warships for secret traps or whatnot and make note of the crews. I will not have a single criminal on board of one of the ships of the royal fleet. Do it discreetly Lord Davos."

"If the warships are satisfactory, you will not have me inspect them again?"

"Very well." Before Stannis could say anything else, the doors were flung open and a furious Lady Baratheon strode in, her eyes sparkling with anger. It came as no surprise that she was in Lannister red again.

"Get out!" she ordered Davos, her emerald green eyes not straying from Lord Stannis. "I want a private moment alone with my husband."

Stannis took one look at her and grunted. "Lord Davos can stay. Whatever you have on your mind you can say in front of him."

Cersei glowered at him. " _I will not!_ "

"As you wish my lady. Please leave then. Whatever you wish to discuss to me about can wait until supper." Stannis paused. "Perhaps until tomorrow morning if it suits you. The queen insists for us to dine together as a family at supper. You will attend of course, but you will not bring another argument to the table. Last time you did, Robert threatened to banish us to Dragonstone until the end of our lives and give Storm's End to Renly."

Cersei flushed. "You care more of Storm's End than your lady wife?"

Stannis frowned. "Get out, woman."

"What did you say?"

"Out!" Davos flinched as Stannis bellowed at his wife. "All you have done since we came here is complain," growled Stannis. "I'm busy with council matters as it is. Not only that, but I have a damned ward who happens to be the young Lord of the Eyrie! I think it will be better if you return to Storm's End for a month of two, do you not agree?"

"I will not leave court for that gloomy tower of a great lord's castle."

Stannis froze. Davos watched as he walked to the door. Davos too edged away from the furious Cersei Baratheon. Even now after years of marriage, Cersei was still more the Lannister lion than the Baratheon stag.

"It seems Lord Davos, I need a moment alone with my lady wife."

Davos dipped his head. "Milord, milady." He fled from the council chamber, the doors swinging shut behind him. Lady Cersei was not one to keep her temper under control – even in public. Frankly it reminded Davos of the king in a heated argument with Stannis. He slowed into a stroll as he headed for his chambers. He was surprised to see his third son Matthos waiting for him.

"Is it true, Father?" Matthos said at once. "Does Lord Frey intend for one of us to wed one of his daughters or granddaughters?"

"What?" said Davos, taken back.

"You haven't heard?"

Davos stared at his son, dumbfounded. Lord Frey must be desperate to get rid of his daughters to consider wedding one to a Seaworth. Even now that he's head of House Seaworth of Rainwood, Davos still remembered his lowly roots and the days of near starvation and smuggling. His sons now have a future and marriage to a Frey! He didn't know whether to fret or rejoice.

"I heard it from Queen Catelyn," explained Matthos, noticing Davos's confused expression. He frowned. "Not exactly _heard_ , but she was talking about it to one of her ladies. Apparently Lord Frey wrote you a letter, offering one of his daughters or granddaughters to one of us. Father, is it true? Will one of us have to marry a Frey?" He looked at him worriedly.

"If it is the case, it is an honour," Davos said uncertainly. "The Freys are one of the most powerful families in the Riverlands and having the Lord of the Crossing as an ally will be useful."

"They control a _bridge_ -"

"A strategically built bridge. What letter is this, Matthos? I don't receive letters – you know that." At times, Davos would walk to Grand Maester Pycelle's rooms to request a reading lesson or two, but he would always cowardly turn away and leave. Thankfully not many lords sent him letters of sorts, preferring to speak to him – or send their squires more like – in person.

"Check your table?" suggested Matthos. Davos nodded slowly. "Aye. Will you be willing to marry a Frey?"

Matthos shrugged. "Who else will be willing to wed their daughter to a son of the Onion Knight?" _Perhaps poor lords desperate to curry favour with the Hand of the King_ , mused Davos. It did make him wonder: was Lord Walder Frey indeed desperate to rid himself of daughters…or could it be something else?

* * *

 **I wasn't too certain if Walder Frey would want one of his brood married to a Seaworth, but he had many daughters and granddaughters to get rid of and even though House Seaworth isn't exactly descended from ancient and noble blood, Davos is quite influential. Next chapter we'll be back at Winterfell and will be there for a while :)**


	37. Lyarra II

"To Lady Lyarra and Lord Domeric!" The Northern lords raised their cups and cheered. Lyarra smiled at them and squeezed Domeric's hand under the table. It was a surprise that Lord Greatjon Umber insisted for a feast to celebrate his liege lord's daughter's betrothal; it was more shocking that her father agreed. _Father loathes feasts_ , thought Lyarra. _It is good of him to host one for me and Domeric. Father is always so kind to us._

Domeric smiled at her. "It's a relief we are finally betrothed," he said, refilling her cup with a little wine. "All the lords guessed we'd be engaged one day and I'm pleased Lord Stark made it official."

"So am I," replied Lyarra. "When the southron lords came, I was worried that Father would consider wedding me off to one of their heirs." She shuddered. "I'd rather be a septa than married to a southron lord."

"Be careful what you wish for," Domeric warned. "Not all those southron lords are bad. What do you think of Hoster Tully? He was polite, courteous and more respectful than some of his companions when he was here. A fair swordsman in the making if I may add."

"Do you want me wedded to someone else?"

"Of course not!" He laughed. Lyarra loved his quiet laugh. "The Tullys are bent on family – the Tully men wouldn't take mistresses."

"Will you?"

"To earn your wrath? No. Besides, with the most beautiful lady of the North as my wife, I will be content."

"I hope not too content to leave your lands alone." A chill shadowed over them as Lord Bolton stood in front of them with what appears to be a contorted smile on his face. He dipped his head at Lyarra. "Lady Lyarra," he said so softly Lyarra had to strain her ears to hear. "I am honoured to have you as a good-daughter in a year or two. You do not know how happy I am."

Lyarra hesitated for a second. "I'm honoured to marry Domeric too," she said finally, daring to look him in the eye. She wished she hadn't. His pale and strange eyes – whiter than stone and darker than milk – were emotionless, almost hollow like a ghost's eyes. For a moment, she foolishly feared that her future children with Domeric would bear the same pale, strange eyes as Lord Bolton's. When she was younger, she asked Maester Luwin why Bran had dark blue eyes when their father and mother both respectively had grey and violet eyes. Not everyone has the same eyes or hair colours as their parents, Maester Luwin had replied. Some may inherit the colours from a grandparent or great grandparent. Lyarra recalled that her Stark grandmother (and namesake) had blue eyes.

"It's a great match," remarked Lord Bolton. "Houses Bolton and Stark united. A dream I often wanted. Have you set foot in the Dreadfort Lady Lyarra?"

Lyarra shook her head. "I read descriptions of it."

"Mmm. Seeing it for yourself is oft better than reading descriptions of it. When I was a boy, I read and heard about the greatness and beauty of Winterfell. When I first saw Winterfell with mine own eyes, I was so amazed." It was impossible to picture an astonished Lord Bolton. "You will be amazed by the sight of Dreadfort too," continued Lord Bolton. "You may even grow to call it home. After all, you'll be visiting the Dreadfort with Domeric shortly."

"My lord?" Lyarra turned and gave Domeric a puzzled look. He seemed equally confused at the news. Lord Bolton's smile broadened. "Lord Stark agreed that it would be wise for the two of you to spend some time at the Dreadfort," he told them quietly. "You will leave with me in a few days."

"A few days?" Domeric stared at his father, flabbergasted. "Father! That is not enough time to bid farewell and we haven't even packed!"

"Do you not miss your home?"

"Of course I do but…but Winterfell is my home too."

Lord Bolton's smiled turned slightly indulgent. "That is what a child would say, Domeric. You are a young man of seventeen. Someday in the future you'll be the next Lord of the Dreadfort and a lord must know his lands and people. How will you be a successful Lord of the Dreadfort if you remain cosseted here? Lord Stark said you love his sons as if they're your brothers – is that a reason you find it so difficult to come with me to the Dreadfort?"

"Lord Bolton," said Lyarra carefully. "Perhaps a few days is a little hasty. Why not stay a week at Winterfell and watch Domeric's progress? He is excellent with the sword and what better competition than Jon and Robb?"

The Lord of the Dreadfort nodded thoughtfully. "I'll speak to Lord Stark, Lady Lyarra," he said even softer than before. "You will indeed be a welcome sight at the Dreadfort my lady." He nodded at his son and returned to his seat between Lyarra's father and Robb.

"If he frightens you, I do not blame you," murmured Domeric. "I cannot believe Lord Stark did not tell us about this…"

"Maybe Father had other matters on his mind?" Lyarra suggested. "With my mother away in Dorne, it must be stressful for him. Mother usually took care of the household matters, leaving Father to deal with Northern politics or stuff like that. I hope Mother returns soon." She sighed wistfully. She missed her mother's company and reining in Arya was more difficult without her help, even with Arya apparently on her best behaviour for some strange reason.

Domeric nodded. "Maybe. I am intrigued to return to the Dreadfort, but I don't want to leave Winterfell either."

"You must. The Dreadfort is your home. It'll be _our_ home soon."

"You still have not uh, flowered yet. Maybe it would be better if you remain at Winterfell and I leave for the Dreadfort. Most daughters stay at home until they are married off. We've just been betrothed and it wouldn't be appropriate if we both leave for the Dreadfort."

"I could be your father's ward."

"No. After my mother died, there aren't many women in the Dreadfort and I'll not leave you in the company of men."

"You will remember me wouldn't you?"

Domeric rolled his eyes. "Of course I won't forget you. I'll _never_ forget you. In the Dreadfort I'll think about you every day. You know that. Here, eat some duck or meat. Be merry. This is our betrothal feast after all."

Lyarra nodded. As she chewed a piece of meat, she watched Arya play around with the food on her plate. After the sewing session, she had reluctantly changed into another more embroidered dress for the feast. She even allowed Daenerys to change her hairstyle. _Curious_ , thought Lyarra. _Did Father threaten to send her to the silent sisters if her behaviour does not approve?_ It was highly unlikely but one of many reasons to possibly explain Arya's odd behaviour.

"Have you noticed something odd about Arya?" she asked Domeric. He gave a quick glance at the silent Arya and frowned. "Arya is missing a good opportunity to have revenge on Jeyne Poole." Lyarra arched an eyebrow. "There is a bowl of peas in front of Arya," Domeric explained. "If she was in her right mind, she'd be flicking peas at Jeyne would she not? I distinctly remember her doing so in a few feasts." He paused. "I think she flicked a pea at you once too."

Lyarra laughed. "You remember that?"

"How could I not? You were in that new purple dress your mother gave you as a name day gift and Arya flicked peas at you. You seethed about it to me but kept calm during the feast. Afterwards, you went into Arya's room and stole the little wooden sword she was so fond of and threatened to burn it in your hearth unless she would spend an afternoon sewing with you and the other girls after you did her hair and dressed her up like you did to your dolls."

"That was at least two years ago! I haven't played with my dolls in years! I've given them to Gwenysse already." Her eyes sparkled. "You should've seen Septa Mordane's suspicious stare when she saw a well-dressed and cooperative Arya in the schoolroom! Mother was so pleased though." She frowned slightly. "Now I think of it, why do you think Arya went through all that when she could have just allowed me to burn her old wooden sword and ask for another one?"

"Have you ever formed an attachment with…something?"

Lyarra thought about it for a good minute. "Not particularly. When I was little, I think I had a favourite doll once."

"Not anymore?"

"No. I grew out of dolls quite quickly."

"Some of us like Arya and myself grow attached to certain weapons which will become our favourite weapon soon enough. Mine is the sword my father sent me as a name day gift. As Arya's a girl, a little wooden sword is one of a few weapons she can actually get her hands on. Who knows? It might have been her favourite wooden sword at the time. It might have the perfect balance for her or maybe it is the right size…a new one wouldn't replace it."

"Oh." Lyarra felt a sense of relief that she hadn't used Arya's wooden sword as kindling. _I wouldn't have done so anyway_ , she thought as she tasted mushroom soup. _I'm not cruel enough to burn or destroy anything_. "Your father did not send you many name day gifts," she noted.

Domeric shrugged. "I did not expect him to. When I was in the library, I read a book about Bolton traditions. Apparently it was more common for a Bolton lord's sons to give him gifts rather than the lord bestowing gifts upon his sons on their name days. Before the Boltons swore fealty to the Starks, Bolton sons would oft give their fathers gifts of cloaks made of the skins flayed from their enemies." He shuddered slightly. "A gift I will never give my father."

"Do Bolton brides receive cloaks of flayed men too?" Her betrothed gave her a dark look. "Do you want one?" he said dryly.

Lyarra returned to her meal but found no appetite to eat anymore. "You lord father is looking at us," she murmured, catching a glimpse of Lord Bolton's cold and icy stare. "What do we do?"

"Do you want to dance?"

"Why not?" If it helps avoid looking at your father, she wanted to add. The two rose and went to the dance floor. Her dark grey skirts embroidered with swirls of white swished around her as Domeric led her into a dance. Noticing them on the dance floor, the musicians struck up a more cheerful tune. Like a slow tide, more couples joined them. Robb led Lady Wylla Manderly in for a dance, her hair dyed a garnish green and tied in a long braid; the skinny blue-grey eyed Alys Karstark escorted to the dance floor by her laughing betrothed Daryn Hornwood, the heir to the Hornwood; lanky Dacey Mormont danced gracefully with Brandon Norrey the Younger of Clan Norrey, garbed in a simple yet elegant woollen green gown; Theon danced with Wylla's elder sister Wynafryd; one of the Greatjon Umber's daughters danced with a Ryswell of the Rills; and what made Lyarra smile was when she caught a glimpse of Jon dancing with Arya.

"By the gods," said Domeric softly, his eyes widening with shock, "my father is actually dancing…with Lady Dustin." Lyarra almost missed a step in her haste to crane her neck to catch sight of the frosty Lord of the Dreadfort dancing with the widowed Lady Dustin.

With a sigh, Domeric spun her around to give her a better view. Lyarra stifled a laugh. Witnessing the spectacle of Lord Bolton dancing was a treat indeed, and with his former good-sister no less!

"My aunt Barbrey sends me letters every week," Domeric informed her. "She lamented that if Lord Stark didn't snatch me away from the Dreadfort at a young age, I would've paged for her. From the few times I see her, she said I remind her of my mother, her sister." He quietened. "My lord father didn't tell me about my mother's death or even her illness until a week later. I wished I was there at her funeral…but the raven arrived too late."

"We will put flowers at her grave once we both go to the Dreadfort," Lyarra assured her. "Once we marry and if I ever give birth to a daughter, we'll name her Bethany, after your mother. I wish I had met her."

"You would've liked her. She probably would've liked you too." The musicians played their final chord and Domeric bowed slightly. Before he could say another word, Robb appeared at his side. "Domeric," he said cheerfully. "May I dance with my sister on this joyous occasion?"

"Of course." Domeric smiled at Lyarra. "I'll leave you in the safe hands of your brother then." Arya ran up to them and tugged Domeric's tunic. "Dance with me," she said promptly. "You'll be my good-brother after all."

Lyarra frowned. "Arya-" She was interrupted as the musicians began the next song. Robb hummed softly as he danced with her. "This was your favourite song once," he remarked as he spun her. "Are you happy with Domeric as your future husband? You'll be married to him forever."

"I'm more than satisfied."

Robb laughed. "Then again, what do you know of marriage? You are still a girl of eleven! I cannot imagine you the formidable Lady of the Dreadfort!"

Lyarra said indignantly. "Well I can't picture you as the Lord of Winterfell any time soon! After all, you are _just_ a boy of fourteen."

"I'm almost a man, Lyarra."

"And I'm almost a woman."

"Oh really? Are you ready to bear Domeric little Bolton babies once you wed?" Even though Robb was only teasing, Lyarra felt her cheeks grow hot. Robb gave her a knowing smirk.

"What about you?" said Lyarra testily. "Will you go around fathering bastards to prove you are a man?"

"Of course not!" exclaimed Robb. "There are enough Snows here in the North. Besides, I'm not Theon."

Genuinely curious, Lyarra asked, "Has Theon fathered any bastards yet?"

"You'd think he would've after boasting all morning about um, his…it doesn't matter what he was boasting about, but I'd expected maids to go up to our father, telling him about their newfound pregnancies. Apparently prostitutes and other women of their profession know a way to-" He broke off. "I shouldn't have said that. Father will have my head."

"I did ask."

"If I had sense, I wouldn't have answered your question. There's answers that highborn ladies such as yourself shouldn't need to hear or know." He lowered his voice. "Do you want to help Dany?"

"Of course I do," said Lyarra, giving him a suspicious look. "I consider Dany my sister so of course I am willing to help." A thought crossed her mind. "Did Theon impregnate her?" she demanded.

"What?" Robb seemed taken back. "No! I hope not! If he did, he'll regret it! No! Dany kept hearing creaking outside her rooms."

"Is that it? Surely Dany knows Winterfell is an _old_ castle."

"Jon thought of a plan to help Dany out. He believes that there is someone – or something – after her. He told Arya about it and she's quite enthusiastic at the ah, prospect of catching a 'ghost'. I think Arya is more delighted that she finally gets a chance of stabbing someone with a wooden sword." He laughed. "Unless Jon or I beat her in the process of it!"

"Do Theon, Domeric and Daenerys herself know if this plan?"

"Arya and Jon are informing them. See?" He nodded at Arya and Domeric who were dancing slightly apart from the rest of them. "Jon's talking to Theon about it over there." Another nod at one of the more vacant trestle tables where Jon Snow was talking quietly to the Greyjoy heir. "He told Dany about it first of course. She is well in favour of it."

"Who – or what – do you think is frightening Daenerys?"

Robb shrugged. "Could be anything. Might even be Theon."

"If it's Theon, would it be wise telling him Jon's plans? Why in the gods would Theon spy and scare Daenerys? Even in his thick head he should know he would be in huge trouble for playing tricks on our cousin."

"I can't imagine any of the servants spying on Dany either."

"Indeed…what exactly is Jon's plan?"

"Staking out Daenerys's room and catching someone or something I suppose. Jon and Dany both thought it would be better to inform you than leave you out as it would be unfair. Don't worry, we're not doing anything tonight. If Dany tells us she hears creaking again, we'll launch Jon's plan tomorrow night. I guess we have the advantage of knowing Winterfell well and there's always that corner close to Dany's room too." He slowed down as the song drifted near the end. "I doubt you are interested in strategy."

Lyarra crossed her arms as the song finished. "Who do you think I am?" she said angrily. "Jeyne Poole? Beth Cassel? _Melia Tully?_ I watched you, Domeric, Jon and Theon play games of strategy since I was old enough to understand the true educational purposes behind come-into-my-castle."

"What use is hearing strategy when you wouldn't be participating?"

"Why not? Arya will be."

"Arya knows how to prick a man with a wooden sword."

Lyarra huffed. Why was it that all the men in Winterfell assumed she was like a southron rose with a fear of sharp weapons? By the old gods and new, she had Dornish blood running through her veins as well as Stark blood. She was no shy, simpering maiden all the southron lords believed her to be! She almost laughed when the queen said to her, "You lord father and lady mother must be proud to have such a beautiful and accomplished daughter like you. So well-behaved and such a lady. You will do well at King's Landing." Lyarra wondered how the lords and ladies of the south would react to the daughter of Eddard Stark of Winterfell and Ashara Dayne of Starfall as a lady of the court.

"I will keep Dany company then," she said decidedly. "I may not be quick with the sword like Arya, but I will not hide and abandon Daenerys. By all means, you keep a look out for this person and I will stay with Dany in her chambers. I hope you didn't plan on leaving her in her rooms alone now did you?"

"Well…we might not have thought it through," Robb admitted sheepishly. "Jon hadn't mentioned anything about it I think…"

Lyarra rolled her eyes. "Of course. You and Jon plot strategy yet when it comes to Dany's comfort you had not thought of it."

"We…" blustered Robb. "We…"

"Go and dance with Daenerys already," said Lyarra, ignoring his stuttering. "I haven't seen you dance with her yet. Go and comfort her. There's no good in me comforting her when it's you and Jon planning to help her." She caught a glimpse of Cley Cerwyn, Lord Cerwyn's heir, heading towards her. Cley had often visited Winterfell for an occasional training session with the boys as his family seat was only a half day's ride from Winterfell. He was courteous to Lyarra and had even played once or twice with Bran.

"It seems I will be dancing all night," Lyarra laughed. " _Go_ , Robb. If you're still thinking of persuading me to stay away from Jon's plans, forget it. You know I'll not back away so easily."

"Robb." Cley approached them and nodded at Robb who grinned back at him instantly. "Good to see you again."

"Indeed! I believe you owe me a rematch from last time's sparring session! If Ser Rodrik had not stopped us, I would have won!"

Cley chuckled boisterously. "Oh don't be so sure, Robb! I'm looking forward to defeating you tomorrow afternoon!" He smiled at Lyarra. "My lady Lyarra, I offer you my congratulations of your betrothal on behalf of my house. Will you honour me with a dance, my lady?"

"Of course." Lyarra flashed him a gracious smile. As Cley led her into the next dance, Lyarra hissed at Robb. "Go and dance with Daenerys or make Jon go and dance with her! _Now!_ " She turned and beamed at Cley Cerwyn again as if she had not snapped at her brother a mere moment ago. As she spun and danced with the heir of Cerwyn, her eyes met Domeric's. Her smile broadened and he grinned at her. _The gods have favoured me_ , Lyarra thought happily. _I have lived alongside my betrothed since my birth; never have I met a man kinder than Domeric. Life is good. What can possibly go wrong?_

* * *

 **Robb is protective of his sisters (more so with Lyarra than Arya) but unlike canon Sansa, I can imagine Lyarra (portrayed by Katie McGrath's Morgana in BBC Merlin) with a knife or some sort of weapon. I am currently writing my first Arya chapter :)**


	38. Robb I

The cool breeze sang softly in the godswood as Robb sat down on the moss-covered stone, a letter in hand. He carefully opened it and smiled to himself as he recognised the handwriting to be Princess Lyanna's.

It was the third letter that month and was filled from the top of the page to the very bottom of it in tiny writing. _I should write back soon_ , thought Robb, feeling a little guilty as he was behind on his correspondence to his betrothed. He planned on writing earlier that day, but had been distracted by his direwolf, Grey Wind. It had been difficult deciding on his pup's name and he ended up choosing between Grey Wind and Frost; his direwolf pup seemed to respond better when he called him Grey Wind. Robb smiled as he remembered Grey Wind yapping happily as he bounded into the Great Hall and steal a piece of bacon straight from the Greatjon Umber's plate. When the Greatjon saw Grey Wind eating his bacon, he'd roared with laughter and threw him more bacon. Shaking his head with a chuckle, Robb settled down and gazed at Lyanna's letter.

 _My lord Robb,_

 _By now you must be weary of my sudden flurry of letters to you my lord. You see, I have decided that until our wedding, I will write to you thrice a month as I doubt my lord father desires another journey to Winterfell and great uncle, the Blackfish, told me that Starks do not like heading south without good reason. I hardly think visiting your betrothed at her bequest counts as good reason._

 _I dined with your brother Brandon – or Bran, as he likes to remind me – on many occasions and he is a sweet boy. I'd hoped my great uncle the Blackfish would take him as his squire, but apparently Bran is to squire for Ser Barristan the Bold – a tremendous honour as Ser Barristan had not taken a squire in many years, or so I was told. Bran is a good friend of my brother Ormund and the two have spent their time exploring the Red Keep and sparring with wooden swords and shields in the tiltyard under the watchful eye of either Ser Barristan Selmy or one of his sworn brothers of the Kingsguard. Once Grandfather Hoster recovers, Mother plans to request a small host of household guards for herself and us to relieve Great Uncle Blackfish's rigorous duties as a sworn member of the Kingsguard and Mother's sworn shield. Do not fear for your brother, my lord. Bran will always be protected and no harm will come to him here in King's Landing._

 _How have you been, my lord? I fear I should have asked you that_ before _I began writing about Bran. Is the North any warmer? Perhaps it is now colder as summer is coming to an end. In the godswood in the Red Keep, some of the leaves have already changed to orange. Are your brothers and sisters well? I hope to meet Lady Lyarra again and talking to Lady Arya is always a pleasure._

 _I hope to hear from you soon my lord._

 _Your betrothed,_

 _Lyanna._

Robb read it again, delighted that Bran didn't seem homesick at all. Then again, Bran had always found everything in life an adventure. _It is kind of Lyanna to tell me about Bran_ , thought Robb. She could've wrote on and on about sewing or any other dull activities enjoyed by noble ladies of her station, but she had elected to write to him about Bran instead.

The dry leaves scattered everywhere as the wind sang again. Robb closed his eyes. When the southron lords came to Winterfell, they were clothed from head to toe in furs. For a true Northerner like Robb, he did not feel as cold. _They have not felt a Northern winter_ , he thought to himself. _When the winds of winter come, they would all be blown away._ He wondered if Lyanna Baratheon had the strong constitution needed to survive the harsh Northern winters. His father had always said that those of weak bodies would fall prey to winter first.

The wooden door creaked open. Robb opened an eye and saw Grey Wind trot towards him. Everywhere Robb went, Grey Wind followed. When he entered the godswood, he thought he had escaped his direwolf – apparently not. Grey Wind licked his hand eagerly. "How did you know I was here?" Robb said aloud. "You are one clever direwolf, Grey Wind."

"He followed me here."

Robb groaned. He loved his siblings but there was never a time he could have to himself without a slight disturbance. If he wasn't out in the courtyard training, he was learning about strategy, history, geography and a dozen other subjects in the schoolroom. If he finally thought he had time to spare, he would be called to the kitchens or the library or somewhere else in Winterfell to sort out a problem Grey Wind had unintentionally – or intentionally – caused.

"I saw Grey Wind sniffing around the courtyard by himself," said Jon, sitting down beside him. "You weren't there so I went looking." Grey Wind lost interest in licking Robb's hand and went off sniffing the heart tree suspiciously. The silent Ghost joined him.

"What's this?" said Jon, glancing at the letter in Robb's hand. "Is that a letter of love from a lady friend?"

"You sound like Theon," Robb retorted.

"Oh please. Theon would've said it twenty times more…inappropriate. Is that a letter from Lady Alys Karstark? I won't be surprised if her father ordered her to write you letters once in a while."

"No. It's from Lyanna." It sounded strange for him to speak her name aloud. "I owe her at least a dozen letters."

"She is eager to hear from you."

"I think…I think she wants our marriage to work. Not everyone is fortunate to fall in love during marriage. King Robert and Queen Catelyn were not in love but they do not despise each other. The Mad King and Rhaella were unhappy during their years of marriage. I too want to be happily married to Lyanna, but I don't…I don't want to be marrying a complete stranger."

Jon raised an eyebrow as he snuck a look at Robb's letter. "The princess isn't a complete stranger," he pointed out. "If she was, she wouldn't be writing so much to you. She most certainly wouldn't have mentioned Bran. Nor would she sign off with just her name. If you were betrothed to some haughty princess, she would have added a dozen titles with her name. Besides, you met and spent quite some time with Princess Lyanna when she visited Winterfell." He paused. "Or have you forgotten about it already? From what I heard, Princess Lyanna is kind, gracious and a lovely woman. Lyarra said that she was nothing like her father apart from inheriting his black hair and blue eyes like her siblings. If you wish to visit her in King's Landing, Father will surely let you go."

"I am the heir of Winterfell. My place is here, not in the south."

Jon snorted. "Who said you have to go and live in King's Landing? Maybe you can visit Lyanna Baratheon in Riverrun."

"Why Riverrun?" Admittedly it was closer than King's Landing, but he had no reason to go there. Wait…didn't Lyanna write that her grandfather was ill? Robb snatched the letter back and read it again. _Once Grandfather Hoster recovers_ …he remembered Lady Melia mentioning in passing that Lord Hoster Tully had been bedridden for weeks.

"What is it?" said Jon, watching him, concerned. Robb slowly smiled. "By any chance, do you fancy a ride down to Riverrun?"

* * *

His lord father's expression did not change in the slightest as Robb asked for his permission to journey to Riverrun.

"That is an odd request Robb," Father said finally as Robb finished. "Quite an odd request indeed." His grey eyes flickered to Jon for a second. "And you wish to accompany him, Jon?"

Jon nodded. "I am thinking of…being knighted." Their father's eyebrows rose instantly. "Have you been listening to Lyarra's songs again?" he asked.

"No," said Jon seriously. "I have been thinking of my future. Even bastards can become good knights."

"Why go south? If you want to be a knight so much I will ask Ser Rodrik Cassel to knight you when you're of age. Don't fear about your future Jon. I promised…I promised your mother there will always be a place for you at Winterfell. Even if I happen to die tomorrow, I'm certain Robb will carry out my promise. Ashara will want you here, Jon. You know that don't you?"

"I've heard about Riverrun's beauty and wish to see it for myself."

Robb resisted arching an eyebrow at Jon's lie or partial truth. He glanced at his father who looked equally doubtful. "Lord Tully will find the sight of a bastard in his own home insulting," Father pointed out. "You know the Tully words. Robb, I intend to give you permission to travel throughout the Seven Kingdoms once of age and married and Jon, you are more than welcome to accompany him then. As for now, perhaps it will be wiser for you to stay here. Train more and you will be ready to be knighted in a few months or maybe a year."

"Oh."

Their father looked sympathetically at Jon. "I'll think about it," he assured him kindly. "Robb, when do you want to arrive at Riverrun?"

Robb had not thought of that. "Uh…in a few months?" he suggested.

"Even if Lord Tully happens to die before that?"

"I…I don't know." His father pushed a few papers to the side of his table. "You must plan it out quickly," he told Robb. "You want to journey to Riverrun, not me. It will be up to you to plan out your route, what you need and how many guards who will accompany you."

"Can I take Jon as one of my guards?"

His father groaned. "Robb. Will it put your mind to rest if I say I'll think about it?" Robb grinned. "Thank you Father." He was confident Father would allow Jon to accompany him to Riverrun eventually. He brightened as another thought had struck his mind. "Jon can find a suitable bride during our journey there," he said enthusiastically. Both his father and brother stared at him open-mouthed.

Jon was the first to recover. "You must be joking," he said quietly.

Robb shook his head. "You'll need to marry too!"

"Robb-" began his father but Jon interrupted. "You need to marry and beget a litter of Starks. I don't. The last thing the North wants are more Snows."

"Jon-"

"When you are knighted you can take a new name," Robb pointed out. "Elaena Targaryen's grandson was a Waters at birth but after he was knighted, he chose to take the name Longwaters. When you're knighted, you can always add another name to Snow."

"Like what?" Jon sounded almost sarcastic. "Blacksnow? Snowblood?"

"Boys!" Their father's voice rose. "If you want to argue, do so outside! Robb, I want you to prepare yourself for the trip to the Riverlands. Perhaps write a letter to Ser Edmure Tully to warn him of your intentions. The last thing you want is to be staying at a nearby inn due to lack of guest chambers at Riverrun. I doubt that there'll be no space left in Riverrun, but it will be good to inform Ser Edmure. Jon, if you want to be a knight so much, go and train."

"Yes Father," said Jon and Robb in unison. They left their father's solar.

"Why do you want to be a knight so much?" Robb said curiously. "I often heard Bran and Arthur talk about it, but you?"

Jon stared at the ground. "You're the heir of Winterfell. I don't expect an heir like you to know why I want to be a knight."

Robb's eyes widened. Jon's words had slapped him hard in the heart. "It does not matter if I'm legitimate and you're not," he said hotly. "I always think of you as my brother and always will! Tell me!"

"If I wed and have children, where will they go?"

"They-" Robb stopped. Not everyone wants a bastard's child in their home. He wondered if Lyanna would accept any of Jon's future children at Winterfell once he and she became the Lord and Lady of Winterfell. Lyanna Baratheon had been nothing but pleasant to Jon…but agreeing to have Jon's future children under the same roof? If it was King's Landing, Queen Catelyn certainly would not have it. "I don't know," said Robb lamely.

"Exactly."

"Father said you will be-"

"He promised my mother, the woman he _refuses_ to speak of, that he will give me a good future. He didn't promise anything about my descendants."

"When did you mope so much?"

"When I realised-" Jon faltered. "It's nothing. I'll go and train. I'll see you later. Probably for supper." He hurried off before Robb could say another word. Robb sighed. Jon and his various moods.

* * *

"It is about time!" said Robb triumphantly, slapping Domeric on the back. "My congratulations, Domeric! You are fortunate to wed my sister! No other is more suited to be her husband than you!" His concerns over the Riverrun trip, Lyanna and Jon almost vanished once he'd heard the official announcement of Domeric and Lyarra's betrothal. He knew since the first time he spoke with Domeric that he would be his good-brother eventually. "Your father would have been a fool if he refused the honour," he added.

Domeric chuckled. "No one called my father a fool…to his face. If someone did, he would've surely earned himself a painful flaying." Robb laughed uneasily. Jon and Theon did not laugh.

"Such a pity," remarked Theon jokingly. "I was quite hoping Lord Stark would reward me with your sister."

Jon snorted. "As if Lord Stark would give you Lyarra. The most you can pray for is receiving Arya."

Theon snickered though he looked thoughtful. "Oh by the gods," Robb groaned, shaking his head at the Greyjoy heir. "You cannot be honestly thinking of having _Arya_ as your wife! She'll beat you to a bloody pulp before you can even drag her in front of the heart tree!"

"I'm of the Drowned God," Theon reminded him. "If I come breaking my fast covered with scratches…" He scoffed. Robb snorted. "The Ironborn will like her though," Theon continued. "Arya is no simpering maid."

"Arya will chop off your balls before you can consummate your marriage," Jon muttered. Theon glared at him.

"Congratulations," Robb told Domeric again. "Is it true there'll be a betrothal feast for the two of you tonight?"

Domeric nodded. "Lord Umber insisted."

"You better get prepared then! I doubt Lyarra will be pleased to see you still sweaty and stinking of hours of training."

"Indeed. I'll see you at the feast." Domeric nodded at them and departed. With an exaggerated sigh, Theon announced. "Ah! There is still time for me to go and fuck a whore! Any of you want to join us?" He winked suggestively. Jon shot him a disgusted look. "What about you?" Theon looked at Robb. "You must come with me to the brothels someday before your wedding. You must have experience and know what you're doing when you bed her." He cackled.

Robb flushed. "That is years away-"

Theon snickered even louder. "You're a man and she's a woman," he sniggered with a mischievous grin lurking near his lips. "Many have married younger than you already. One day in the near future, the king will demand for you to finally wed his precious daughter. What if it catches you unaware? The last thing your future wife will want is you fumbling around with no clue how to pleasure her or where to stick your-"

"Robb," Jon cut in. "May I have a word with you?"

"Of course." Relieved, Robb followed Jon to his room, leaving Theon heading to the brothel alone. "What is it you want to talk about?"

"Daenerys," said Jon promptly. "I was training with her and she seemed…quite distracted." _It seemed you were distracted too_ , thought Robb. "Apparently there is someone harassing her," Jon went on, "every night too. She came to me last night and slept on my bed. She said she still heard creaking. She told Father, but I want to know how stone ground can creak. I didn't inquire about it to Dany, but it is an interesting thought do you not agree?"

"I suppose…"

"That's not the point. As her friend, I plan to help her. I want to catch the man – or woman – who has the nerve of stalking and frightening her. I need your help in this. And Arya's. Probably."

"Of course I'll help," said Robb at once. "Is Dany alright? What do you want me to do? Does Father know of your plan?"

"No! He wouldn't agree to it! Father would say we're still boys and forbid us to go ahead with the plan. You know that!"

"What do we do? Stake out her rooms?"

Jon nodded. "Daenerys said that Maester Luwin will give her a sleeping draft or something, but I told her not to drink it tonight – we need to know if she hears the creaking again. Tomorrow night we will be ready."

"Will you tell Theon and Domeric?"

Jon made a face. "Domeric yes, Theon…I'm afraid he'll make a joke out of the whole thing, but Daenerys said that we might need a good archer. Dany is telling Arya about the plans as we speak. I think."

"And Lyarra?"

"Dany's in favour of Lyarra being aware of it."

Robb sighed. "I rather none of our sisters getting involved in this…" He slowly scratched his head. He wanted to say that both Lyarra and Arya were too young to be involved in staking out Dany's room; he wanted to tell Jon that staking out a chamber was not meant to be a woman's task, but he knew if both sisters found out he said it, they would be enraged. Arya would no doubt punch him – Lyarra would be furious. When they were children, Lyarra pretended she was Rhaenys Targaryen (until Father told them to stop re-enacting Aegon's Conquest for an unknown reason) while Arya preferred to be brave Danny Flint. Robb still didn't have the heart to tell her about Danny Flint's fate.

"Lyarra is no southron rose," Jon said flatly.

"She isn't Arya," said Robb uncertainly. "What happens if there is an assassin here in Winterfell who plans to kill all of us beginning with Dany? We – and Arya – can protect ourselves, but Lyarra can't. Domeric wouldn't even let her hold his sword! Maybe she should train with us."

"I doubt your mother would be particularly pleased."

"I will talk to Lyarra about it in the feast."

Jon nodded. "I will talk to Theon." He paused. "Robb, I'm sorry about earlier. I didn't mean to lash out at you. It's just…I don't understand why I am here. Many lords abandon their bastards or at the most, acknowledge them. Not many take them in. For a while, I thought, I _hoped_ , that Father would ask the king to have me legitimised someday…" His voice trailed away.

"Enjoy life while you can," advised Robb. "Don't dwell on why you're a bastard. Probably Father wants to announce your legitimisation on your sixteenth name day or something. Mayhaps he intends it to be a surprise." He patted his brother on the shoulder. "Come, we have a feast to prepare for."

* * *

 **This chapter was another difficult one to write. Lengthening it was more the problem than the actual mini plot I allotted the chapter. Anyway, I've decided for this chapter and the next two to be all set in Winterfell. Next chapter will be Arya's POV :) I'll try and upload another chapter for The Bolton Bride, but my interest in The Dance of Spring was kind of renewed haha.**


	39. Arya I

To Arya's horror, the sword belt she stole from Jon was too big. There was no time to rush down the corridor to steal another sword belt; she had to make do with this big one.

Making a last minute choice to abandon the large sword belt all together, Arya hurriedly grabbed Needle from her messily made bed, sheathed it quickly in her scabbard and left her room, closing the door behind her. Arya quietly slipped to her assigned spot in a darkened corner of the corridor. She had initially wanted to hide with Jon and Robb nearer to Dany's chambers, but Jon deemed the two of them to be enough and assigned Arya to crouch in a dark corner. "You're small enough to hide there without anyone noticing," he had explained. "You will have a clear view of Dany's room too."

With the final few rays of sunlight disappearing behind the mountains, Arya settled down, grasping the grip of Needle so tightly her knuckles turned white. _I hope Dany is not frightened_ , contemplated Arya. Then again, Danaerys had Lyarra in her room for company. At least Dany wouldn't be alone.

The creaking sound comes near midnight, Dany had said. Arya sighed. There were still at least four hours to wait. She grinned to herself as she pulled out the small wooden wolf from her pocket. She had not played with the wooden wolf since she was four; it was a good toy to play with to occupy the time.

Arya closed her eyes as she tried to sit still. Mother said that when she was a baby, she was like a kitten – so frisky and always mewing for food or attention. It was naught but a faint memory to Arya but she distinctly remembered Mother calling her, "My little kitten." Robb laughed about it for weeks but Jon said that it was sweet and suited her. Arya wondered how Mother thought she looked like a kitten when stupid Jeyne Poole called her Arya Horseface.

Anger surged through her as she thought of Jeyne Poole. Ever since Arya set foot in the schoolroom, the steward's daughter had been nasty to her. Father had often praised Vayon Poole and Arya liked hearing his reports about bread stores, coppers and servants – Vayon Poole was never rude to anyone.

Arya wondered why the other girls called her names like Arya Horseface and Arya Underfoot. What did she do to them? She didn't know what to think of her elder sister either. Lyarra enjoyed hearing about the affairs of the North as much as Arya did, but she was also graceful at dancing and good at sewing. _The perfect lady_ , Arya thought scornfully.

She glanced around impatiently. Oh why wouldn't time go faster! She should have known that waiting was a part of staking out. The thought of the first lesson with a Braavosi instructor excited her. Somehow her father had managed to find a Braavosi water dancer willing to travel to the cold North (she overheard him inform Maester Luwin about it). _He must be a brave man_ , thought Arya. _Not many southroners are willing to come here and a Braavosi instructor is willing to come here!_ She smiled to herself.

Stifling a yawn, Arya closed her eyes. She had been up since dawn, sewing and enduring Septa Mordane's sharp criticism and a rigorous training session in the afternoon. Appeasing Septa Mordane was no easy task. "That stitch is crooked," the hawk-eyed septa would snap. "What is that? A piece of grass? It is supposed to be a _flower_ , Lady Arya. Begin again at once." If water dancing lessons was not on her mind, she would have retorted and slipped away. That morning when the septa reprimanded her for her apparent lateness (it had only been a minute), she repeated to herself, "Think of your future dancing classes. Think of your future dancing classes. Think of your future dancing classes." It had worked – for a few hours. Arya took to gritting her teeth after three hours.

Before she made the agreement with Father, she would flee in the middle of sewing sessions and at times return at the end. For such a sharp-eyed woman, it was astonishing Septa Mordane never noticed her missing every time. Mostly she did but once in a while Arya escaped her watchful gaze. Arya assumed the septa was occupied praising Lyarra as usual.

Determined not to break her word with Father, Arya had resisted the urge to run from the sewing room. For the first time in her life, she sat through the entire sewing session, quiet and obedient – well, more obedient than usual.

Almost as much a hawk as Septa Mordane, Lyarra noticed her change once she set foot in the sewing room. "What are you up to?" she asked, a suspicious look in her eyes. "Is this another one of your tricks?"

"No," Arya had replied. "I plan to be good today."

Lyarra laughed. "You? Good? This is a jape. You are japing yes?" Seeing Arya's serious expression, her violet eyes widened. "By the gods…you're not japing. You are actually serious Arya…" She continued staring at her to an extent that made Arya shift uncomfortably. Lyarra looked at her strangely. "Are you ill? Maybe we should have Maester Luwin look at you. Yes, we should." She grabbed her hand. "We'll go and see Maester Luwin at once."

"No!" Arya yanked her hand away. "I'm fine stupid! Is it really that odd of me wanting to be good?"

"Yes!"

Arya sighed. Why do her siblings have no faith in her? After hours of torturous sewing was over, Lyarra must have told the boys about Arya's plans to be 'good' as Theon confronted her about it, tears of laughter running down his face. It took a great deal of gritting teeth and silent cursing for Arya to supress the urge to hit him or perhaps knock out a tooth or two. As always Domeric encouraged her as a brother would though he wore an expression of bemusement similar to the smile on Robb's face. Jon had ruffled her hair affectionately and said, "The day you win the approval of your septa is the day the Others break the Wall."

Somehow – no thanks to Lyarra – Daenerys discovered it too and gave her a smile. Dany had not smiled in days to Arya's puzzlement. Even in the feast when Cley Cerwyn complimented her, she did not crack a smile or mumble a word of thanks, leaving poor Cley bewildered.

Now Arya understood why Dany had no energy to smile. She hoped Daenerys had the strength to stay calm in her chambers. _Once we catch him, he will regret the day he snuck into Winterfell_ , Arya thought savagely. _Father will execute him with Ice – the Northern way. She envied Robb. One day it would be him wielding the Stark ancestral greatsword._ _If I was born a boy, would Father permit me to grasp Ice?_ She doubted it. Even now, Jon and Robb weren't allowed to _hold_ it unless Ser Rodrik or Father were watching them.

She scowled as her thoughts drifted to Jeyne Poole. Once a few days she would always end up thinking about mean Jeyne. If she hadn't promised Father that she would be good, Jeyne would wake up one morning in a room reeking of goat and horse dung. Her scowl deepened. "You'll be sent the silent sisters," Jeyne had said nastily once. "No one will want to marry a horse face like you."

Arya recalled punching her in retaliation. Even now Jeyne's nose did not look quite the same as before to Arya's delight. Unfortunately when Jeyne ran off and wailed to Septa Mordane, Arya was sent to her room without any dessert. Mother had even agreed that it was a fitting punishment, especially with raspberry tarts – Arya's favourite – being that evening's dessert.

Missing out one night's dessert was not so bad when leftover raspberry tarts appeared as the next day's breakfast. Arya could not help but snicker quietly. The gods were always on her side…mostly.

Repressing an impatient sigh, Arya silently stood up to stretch her thin arms and legs. She wished midnight would hurry up.

Ignoring Jon's orders to remain hidden in the shadows, Arya crept away to the boys' hideout. _Be as silent as a cat_ , Arya thought. She grinned at the sudden idea of tapping Jon on the shoulder. Scaring Robb and Theon was easy; frightening Jon, not so much. She assumed Domeric would be difficult to frighten too. The Bolton sigil was a _flayed_ man – what would terrify a man whose sigil was a flayed man? Probably nothing but fear itself.

Arya paused as she heard soft whispering.

"If your lady betrothed was here, what do you believe she would think about you hiding around at night with us?"

"If she's anything like Lyarra she would want to help."

"Lyarra speaks of Princess Lyanna in the highest regard." That was Domeric. "I think Princess Lyanna would most likely want to help."

"Why? She hardly knows Dany." Arya rolled her eyes. Typical Theon. "Besides, to a southron princess, Dany is naught more than a bastard. Not everyone is kind to bastards like Lord Stark."

"Princess Lyanna is."

Someone – most likely Theon – snorted. "Please! I know she is your betrothed and all, but do you honestly believe Queen Catelyn _Tully's_ daughter will be at all kind to bastards? Snow, you're a bastard. Were you or Dany even introduced to her when she _was_ here?" He sniggered.

 _Stop calling Jon a bastard!_ Before Jon or anyone else could reply, Arya swiftly jumped out of hiding and jabbed Theon in the back with Needle. Theon jumped and yelped like a little girl. Jon snickered before staring at Arya. "Arya!" he hissed at her. "What are you doing here? I told you to stay quiet in your corner! You will be safer there even _without_ Needle! Go! I know it isn't midnight yet and wouldn't be for a few more hours, but be patient Arya! Go to sleep if you want. If you can't sit still for a few more hours, you can always go to bed."

"No!" snapped Arya in a hushed whisper. "I'm not a scared little girl! Why are all of you hiding out here together and I'm on my own?"

Jon sighed. "Theon, go to the other corner."

"It's not time yet!" Theon protested.

"Just go!"

Theon glared at him. "As you wish," he said with a mocking bow. He sauntered off with a bow in hand and a quiver of arrows on his back. Jon glanced at Arya. "I think you should go back to your corner too."

"No!" protested Arya. "Don't send me back now!"

"Why?" said Domeric so softly that he eerily reminded Arya of his grim father, the Leech Lord of the Dreadfort. "You wanted to prove to us you are no shirking maiden, yes?" Arya nodded. "Do you not think you are acting in a manner similar to one of a young child?" Arya stared at him. "I'm not a child!" she said hotly, hurt at Domeric's words.

"Domeric-" began Robb uneasily, but Domeric interrupted. "If you refuse to be a lady and want to pursue swordplay, you have to endure patience by yourself in shadowy places. Understand?"

"We're not at war," Arya complained.

"I know, but you must master patience and silence. Ask Maester Luwin or Ser Rodrik if you want."

Arya sighed and turned to Jon. "Must I go?"

"Unless you want me to carry you to your room…." Arya rolled her eyes. "I'll go back to my corner," she said grudgingly. Muttering quietly under her breath, she stomped away.

* * *

By the time midnight finally rolled around, Arya was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. She squinted as she silently counted the tiny cobwebs. Usually the servants did an excellent job wiping away cobwebs but they must have missed a few in their hurry. Arya had no problem with cobwebs. In fact, she liked finding a couple of cobwebs here and there. It reminded her of how old Winterfell was and the rich history it housed. Arya loved nothing more than to listen to the maester or Old Nan's stories of Winterfell. She also enjoyed hearing Father's tales in the evening when the whole family gathered in front of the fireplace, the orange and yellow flames singing merrily behind them in the short winters and near the end of the short autumns in her nine years.

Father would sit on his comfortable big chair carved with a wolf's head at the back. He would speak quietly and recall tales of the past, sometimes battles and at times stories about previous Lords of Winterfell. Mother would sit on a purple cushioned chair beside him and squeeze his hand from time to time. When it was a story regarding the tourney at Harrenhal or what was now known as Robert's Rebellion, Mother would chime in her own perspective which was as interesting as Father's view. Robb would sit on Father's right, Jon and Theon beside him, and listen intently. Sitting on Mother's other side would be Lyarra who looked just like her from her torrent of dark hair to her violet eyes. Domeric would be beside her of course, and so would Dany. Arya and Bran would be comfortably on the floor, alternating between asking questions, listening and playing with Arthur and Gwenysse who didn't have the patience to sit and listen for hours.

Arya felt a pang of guilt as she thought of her younger siblings. Due to all the excitement of Lyarra's betrothal and the mystery surrounding Dany, she had not thought much of Gwenysse, Arthur or baby Rickon. Guilt jabbed her deeper when she realised she hadn't contemplated much on Bran either. _I am a selfish girl who doesn't deserve water dancing lessons_ , she thought. She decided to visit the young ones in the nursery tomorrow afternoon.

She wondered if Gwen – she liked calling her Gwen as Gwenysse was a handful to say at times – would be more like her or Lyarra. Visiting lords often said, "Lord Stark, the Lady Lyarra is indeed a beauty and so much like the Daynes while your other daughter the Lady Arya is a Stark through and through." They hardly spoke about Gwenysse – she was still a little girl of five after all. Arya hoped Gwen was more like her. It would be fun to spar with a little sister, even if she had to wait a good four years at least.

Arya almost laughed as she imagined Mother's expression when she sees two of her daughters sweaty from a day of training. Gwen already had the same dark hair as Lyarra but had the Stark grey eyes. She smiled as she remembered Arthur running up to them, crying, "I see them! I see them!", in his boy-sized armour on the day of the royal party's arrival at Winterfell. No doubt Arthur would want to be a knight like his late uncle the Sword of the Morning.

 _Creak._

Her heart almost stopped. Arya suddenly sat upright and stared at the dark in front of her. Nothing. No one was there.

 _Creak._

A chill settled over Arya. How on earth would the stone floor creak? As slow as a snail, Arya rose, her fingers grasping Needle's grip so tightly she was convinced her knuckles turned white. Jon had ordered her to stay still, but curiosity got the better of her. As silent as a cat, Arya crept away from the corner, guided by only a slim sickle of moonlight and the sound of this particular creaking. She quickly hid behind another smaller corner to avoid the moon's glare.

 _Creak._

Her hand shaking slightly, Arya moved and peered from her hiding spot. Her heart thudded as the moon shone against the intruder.

The intruder was on all fours in front of Dany's room. He shifted as if trying to look through the tiny gap between the stone ground and the door. Arya wanted to scream; he was more frightening than Jon's drawing of a grumkin. In a way, a grumkin reminded her of the creepy _thing_ in front of Dany's chambers.

He – or it – was short, probably shorter than Arya herself. He was quite skinny and bits of bone stuck out, sagging skin hanging from it. From his bulbous head were a few strands of hair and his thin fingers scratched against the door and the floor like a feral dog.

 _Creak._

Her eyes widening in shock, Arya clapped a hand over her mouth and turned away, her heart pounding louder than before. The _creaking_ was coming from the creature's mouth.

Taking a deep breath, she turned around again. Before she could take another tentative step, she heard the _zing_ of an arrow. The creature hissed and bounced towards Arya. Both he and Arya froze as his black, soulless eyes met hers. Arya remained rooted to the spot, partially because of Jon's plan and partially in fear and uncertainty. As Jon kind of predicted, the foul creature bounded towards her, hissing and making that sickening _creaking_ sound. She pointed Needle at him in warning. "I'm not afraid of hurting you."

The creature growled. Arya took a step towards it, Needle at the ready. "I will kill you," she said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. With a loud snarl, the creature lunged straight at her. Before Arya could stick Needle through what little flesh he had, Jon quickly jumped out from his hiding place and shoved the creature against the wall. He flinched as he saw the creature's face.

Domeric slinked out from his hiding place along with Robb and Theon, a large grin on his face. Arya poked the creature's foot with Needle. "What is this?"

"Looks like a grumkin," commented Theon, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "One drawn by Jon," he added as Arya gave him a judgmental look.

The door opened and Daenerys peeped out, her face as white as snow. Lyarra looked at the creature pinned against the wall. "What is _that?_ "

"Is that _thing_ responsible for the creaking?" said Dany shakily. Robb took off his cloak and fastened it around Dany's own cloak. "Apparently so," Robb agreed, giving the creature a look of disgust. Arya groaned as Theon stepped closer and gave it a hearty kick in the leg. The creature _creaked_ and hissed again.

"Must you?" said Jon, arching an eyebrow.

"Do you think it can speak and understand the Common Tongue?" said Lyarra, venturing closer to it.

"Don't go near it," advised Robb.

"Why? Jon has him – or it – under control." Lyarra instantly jumped back as it snarled and spat at her. Arya wrinkled her nose.

"We should take it to Father now," decided Robb. "We can't keep it pinned to the wall all night and Father will be interested in discovering why this thing had been harassing Dany."

"Is it even human?" inquired Daenerys. She shuddered. "At least the creaking will stop now we have it cornered. I can't believe it was this…this thing lurking outside my door every night."

"Not anymore," Jon informed her. "Lord Stark will have it locked up for a few days in the dungeons and then execute it."

Jon kept the hissing creature pinned to the wall as Robb tied its hands and feet together with a piece of rope he had helpfully brought along. With another piece of strong rope, Domeric tied it loosely around its neck and began dragging it in the direction of Lord Stark's chambers. Arya kept Needle out, slightly hoping to have another chance of tackling it down. She glanced around. Robb had decided to be closer to Lyarra and Dany rather than at the front of their little line with Jon. Theon was behind them, whistling softly as he walked.

"You've done well tonight," Jon said quietly. "When I saw what it looked like, I was frightened. I wanted to run, but you stood there bravely. Well done. Not a lot of people would do what you did."

"I was scared too," Arya confessed. "I wanted to scream and hide. I'm glad that I didn't." On impulse, she wanted to kick the creature savagely. For the rest of the journey to her father's rooms, she was silent. None of it made any sense. Who on earth would send this creature to torment Daenerys? Dany was kind to everyone, even to those who insult her because she was a bastard.

Jon knocked on the door. Within seconds, it opened and Father looked down at them blearily. "What is going on?" he asked, crossing his arms.

Before any of them could respond, the creature raised its head and hissed, a ghastly smile on its face. " _Theeeee quiiiiet woooolf…_ "

* * *

 **The creature was inspired by Gollum from Lord of the Rings. I mentioned Gwenysse, Arthur and Rickon because sadly I kind of forgot about them when I wrote the previous chapters haha. Don't worry. Gwenysse definitely has an important part coming up later in the story - when she's a little older of course.**


	40. Eddard X

Ned's mouth dropped open as the creature hissed again. He looked at his sons, daughters and wards uneasily. Only Domeric seemed vaguely unfazed. Dany was white with fear and Theon had an expression of revulsion.

"I doubt any of us can go back to sleep," Ned said with a sigh.

"None of us had slept all night," admitted Jon. Ned shook his head. "Sit down," he said wearily. "All of you. Close the door behind you," he added. Stifling a yawn, Ned lit a small fire and waited for the children to shuffle in and settle down. Jon helped Domeric tie the creature to a brass post of the bed. Ned crossed his arms. So many questions buzzed in his tired mind, but one stood out. "Why are you all awake at such a time?"

"It's him," said Robb, pointing at the creature. "That is the creature who kept harassing Dany for the last few nights."

"It looks like a grumkin," said Theon with a smirk.

"So you decided to take matters into your own hands," said Ned, ignoring his Greyjoy ward. "I suspect none of you told me due to your belief that I would stop you in your plans?"

Jon nodded reluctantly. "I'm sorry if we deceived you Father."

"No matter." His grey eyes swept towards the three girls. "Why are you not in bed? I hope you didn't play a big part in all this." He noticed the sword in Arya's hand. "Arya, why do you have that?" He took it from her carefully. "I know this – it is Mikken's work is it not?"

Arya nodded uncomfortably. "It was a gift."

Ned frowned. "A gift?" Who would give her a sword? He had too much on his mind already. "I expect answers soon," he warned, giving the sword back to her. He will ask her more about it later, perhaps at breakfast. "Why are you all awake and with the boys?"

"We were part of Jon's plan Father," said Lyarra bluntly. "I was keeping Dany company in her rooms. What kind of cousin would I be if I allowed Dany to stay alone in her chambers?"

"Wouldn't it have been easier if Daenerys had hid in your chambers and one of your brothers pretended to be Dany in her chambers? All the boys are trained to kill and maim while you girls are not. What do you think would happen if none of the boys were within view and this creature managed to finally break through Dany's door? Lyarra, both you and Dany would be dead."

"I would've been able to protect them," Arya interjected.

Ned raised an eyebrow. "I suppose," he conceded reluctantly. "If you had told me about your plan, I would've ensured extra men to be on alert."

"I doubt that would be any good my lord," said Domeric quietly. "I am under the impression that this creature had been hiding in Winterfell for months – even before the royal party's arrival perhaps."

"Oh?"

"Look at him." Domeric poked the creature's saggy skin with his sword. "If he – or it – was once human, he clearly went through months of starvation and is no longer human. I wonder why he was here in the first place…" He crouched down and stared at the creature in the eye. "What are you doing here, creature? Were you sent here or did you come on your own volition?"

The creature hissed. "Theeeee flaaaaayed maaaaan's sonnnn…" It turned and glared at Daenerys with strangely dark eyes. "Youuuu…." it snarled. "You should not be heeeere!"

"Why?" demanded Daenerys angrily. "Who are you to say I cannot stay here? I am Lord and Lady Stark's niece!"

The creature threw back its head and laughed wildly. Unease swirling in Ned's stomach, he cleared his throat. "It would be wiser not to provoke him. Domeric, Jon, we'll go and put the creature in the dungeons. After breakfast, I will go and question him thoroughly. None of you will set foot near the dungeons or speak to this creature, understand? If I catch wind that one of you have went against my orders…" He took a deep breath. "There will be severe consequences. Don't think of it as punishment children, this is for your own safety."

"I need to know," Daenerys insisted.

Ned shook his head firmly. "No. I'm sorry Daenerys, but I must insist on asking this creature questions on my own. If he reveals anything, I will tell you and all the others present immediately."

"You promise?" inquired Arya.

Ned nodded. "I'll tell you everything," he promised. "Once I have answers, I'll tell you. I'll tell all of you. However, you must swear by the old gods and new that you will not repeat any of this to anyone else. Not your mother, not your siblings and none of Winterfell's household staff and retainers. The last thing we need is panic in Winterfell." He heaved a sigh. _I need a drink_. Preferably something warm and soothing. "You all must have at least a few hours of sleep. Jon, Domeric, let's go to the dungeons. Now."

"Wait," said Robb suddenly. "Does this creature have a name?"

Ned looked down at it. "Do you have a name?" he said loudly and clearly. The creature lifted its head. To his astonishment, it looked slightly depressed. "I haad a name once," it hissed quietly, "but it was taaaaken away from meeee."

"What is your name?" said Dany softly.

"I haaaaave no name."

"What _was_ your name?"

The creature paused and stared at Daenerys again for a good minute before it decided to reply. "Mooooorbus."

"Morbus?"

"Mooooorbus. Before heeeeee took it awaaay from mee."

"Jon! Domeric! Let's go." Ned led Jon and Domeric and Morbus away from his chambers, leaving the others behind with confused and bewildered expressions. _They will all be expecting answers soon_ , Ned thought sadly. He suspected there'll be answers he must unfortunately keep from them – even if he promised Arya he wouldn't. There would always be secrets. Always.

"What's wrong with him?" Jon whispered as they arrived at the dungeons. "I never heard such…such hissing before."

"I don't know," Ned murmured back. "We will have answers soon."

"Why do you think he is after Dany? Dany wouldn't hurt a fly!"

"I know you are worried about Dany – we all are – and I will ensure that we'll have all the answers we need."

"Can I listen in?"

Ned shook his head firmly. "No Jon. I will question him myself." He opened the dungeon door and Domeric all but threw Morbus in. It was the last dungeon and the most secure. Windowless with a strong iron door, Ned was confident Morbus could not get out. However, there was always the chance someone would try and help him escape…Ned glanced at the waiting Jon and Domeric. "Is it too much to ask if the two of you can guard the door for a few hours?" he asked hesitantly. "I know you are tired and probably hungry, but after all your uh, valiant efforts in capturing Morbus, it will be disastrous if he somehow escapes with the help of a possible accomplice."

"There is _another_ one of him here?" said Jon, horrified.

"There could be. We don't know. I will have someone bring you food and drink at once, and Robb and Theon will replace you in a few hours. Once I finish asking Morbus all the questions we need, I will set a regular guard at his door."

Domeric nodded. "I cannot fall asleep even if I tried."

"If he talks, write down everything he says – even if it is nonsense. For all we know, he could be speaking in code."

Jon nodded. "Very well."

Ned smiled tightly at the two boys. "If there is a problem, let me know. I know it is heavy responsibility for the two of you-"

"We can handle it Father," Jon assured him.

Ned nodded and walked away. As he headed back to his chambers, his heart sank as he heard someone call his name. Maester Luwin shuffled towards him in his grey woollen robes, a candle in hand. "Lord Stark," he said again.

"Maester Luwin," Ned acknowledged. "What are you doing-" He stopped. Was it too early or too late?

"There were noises my lord," said Maester Luwin, glancing around. "I thought it best to warn you…but it seems you are already aware of it my lord. If you don't mind me asking Lord Stark, but what happened?"

Ned sighed. Maester Luwin would discover it anyway. "There was an intruder here," he admitted. "The boys subdued him and he is now in the dungeons. I did not want to alarm the guests so I had Jon and Domeric guard him for now. Once the guests leave, I will set a regular guard on him."

"I see. There is news from the Wall."

"Can this not wait until the morning, Maester?"

"It could my lord – if you so wish it still. However, as we are both awake and speaking, it might be wiser if I tell you now." Spotting Ned's reluctant glance, the maester continued. "I was woken up by an extremely early raven, Lord Stark. The bird arrived at my window just past the hour of the eel, as some would like to say. Fortunately I was a light sleeper and found more interest in the message brought by the raven than attempting to return to sleep. Anyway, I read the letter and it was from Lord Commander Mormont."

"Oh? Does he want more men again?" Almost routinely, Lord Commander Jeor Mormont sent letters requesting more men every few months. "I'll ask the other lords if they have any criminals to send to the Wall."

"It is not that, Lord Stark. Well…not exactly. Yes, the Lord Commander asked for more men, but he also wrote about the death of a…a recruit."

"The death of a recruit?"

"Yes. The death of a recruit." Maester Luwin handed him a scroll of paper. "It was Viserys Dayne of High Hermitage who died I believe. I don't know why Lord Commander Mormont would mention it, but I assume the First Ranger asked him to include it in the letter."

 _Benjen_. Ned unrolled the parchment and squinted at it.

 _Greetings Lord Stark,_

 _I must regrettably inform you that the number of black brothers are dangerously dwindling and with the strong possibility of a long winter approaching, the Night's Watch is in dire and almost desperate need for more men to man the Wall._

 _Moreover, the wildlings have become bolder – you must've known that from Lord Umber's reports – and the task of subduing them had become harder by the day. Any men you send will be a welcome sight Lord Stark. Even one man can help the situation at the Wall._

 _On another note, the First Ranger Benjen Stark reminded me to tell you that one of the recruits, Viserys Dayne of High Hermitage, had died from what our maester believes to be illness of some sort. The details about his death are slightly murky – then again, my duty is not at a sickbed or at an infirmary. From what Maester Aemon informed me, Viserys Dayne died a couple of days ago and we need to know if you wish for his body to be returned to Winterfell – or High Hermitage – or if you want it to be burnt like the bodies of the fallen among our ranks. We usually only notify the deceased's family, but as Viserys Dayne seemed to have none who care, the First Ranger suggested we inform you as your lady wife's mother was a Dayne of High Hermitage._

 _May the old gods be with you Lord Stark,_

 _Jeor Mormont,_

 _Nine Hundred and Ninety Ninth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch._

Ned groaned. Over the last couple of weeks – no, _years_ – he had forgotten all about Viserys at the Wall. Benjen might have mentioned him once or twice in his letters, but the thought of the last Targaryen boy always slipped Ned's mind. He felt a little guilty now.

"My lord?" said Maester Luwin cautiously.

"Benjen was kind to inform me about Viserys's death," Ned muttered. "It will be best if he is cremated…quickly." He walked faster to his chambers. The death of Viserys _Targaryen_ was unexpected. Very unexpected. Ned wondered if Varys had a hand in this. If he did, it wouldn't make sense. It was the Spider who sent Viserys to the Wall in the first place. Then again, perhaps Viserys died a…natural death after all. Anything could happen at the Wall.

"Lord Stark…is this boy truly related to Lady Stark?"

Ned stopped in his tracks and sighed again. "Maester Luwin," he said softly. "I trust you second to my wife and those of my blood. However, there are a couple of matters I do not have the liberty to share with you."

"Of course my lord. However, rumours will spread."

"Rumours?"

"One day after Viserys is cremated, the sworn brothers of the Night's Watch will talk amongst themselves and wonder if Viserys was truly mad. Rumours will flitter south and some will wonder if…if you have aided your wife's family than they have done to yours."

Ned nodded slowly. To many Northern lords, a Dayne was a Dayne even if he was from High Hermitage and not Starfall. Ashara had went south to deal with a problem in Starfall, not to comfort and support Bran – that would not settle well with lords like the Greatjon and Roose Bolton.

"Will they actually believe the rumours?" said Ned uncertainly.

"Perhaps."

"Even if they choose to, they will not blame Ashara would they? She is always a gracious hostess and my bannermen have said nothing but praise towards her. Even Lord Umber, who is not afraid to speak the blunt truth, said she was 'more northerner than Dayne' ever since she gave birth to Lyarra." He could not resist a reminiscing chuckle. "When Ashara gave birth to Robb, Greatjon Umber had the temerity to say I was fortunate to have married a fertile and pretty southroner. I thought he would call her…something else."

"I doubt Lord Umber would call Lady Stark anything inappropriate."

"He did call his late good-sister a whore when it suited him. The Greatjon does remind me of Robert from time to time."

"Indeed my lord." _Is it just me or does he sound more awake?_ "Are you in the mood to discuss more or will you return to bed?"

Sleep would not drift to Ned even if he tried to grab wisps of it. Ned trudged to his solar and lit a few candles, Maester Luwin trailing behind him. Ned glanced at the window – it was still dark outside. Then again, it was at least an hour or two after midnight. Ned sat down and gestured for the maester to seat himself down on the chair opposite him. "Maester Luwin, what is it you wish to discuss so early in the morning?"

"Or so late at night my lord."

"What is it Maester Luwin?"

"Lord Umber has daughters, Lord Stark. And a younger son."

Ned covered his eyes with his hands with a tired sigh. " _Maester Luwin_. forgive me, but every time we talk, you always bring up the subject of betrothals for my children. If it wasn't a betrothal between Arya and Ser Edmure's heir, it would be between little Gwenysse and a Flint. I do not mean to be offensive Maester Luwin, but the last time a maester suggested matches for Starks, it didn't end well." He shuddered. "It didn't end well at all."

Maester Luwin nodded, his expression impassive as usual. "I understand your reluctance to marry off your children my lord," he said calmly. "However, it is my duty as a maester to offer you advice regarding the good of Winterfell. We both know marriages are the best way to secure new alliances. Lyarra's betrothal will cement the North; Robb's betrothal will permanently secure an alliance with the royal family. I know I repeat myself Lord Stark, but you have five more children to find suitable spouses for."

" _Six_ , Maester Luwin. Six children."

The maester nodded again. "Of course Lord Stark. Six children. Would it not be simpler if you wed Jon to Daenerys? No one will object to a match between your natural son and Lady Stark's natural niece. Furthermore it'll strengthen the unity between Daynes and Starks forged by your own marriage."

It would be fitting…if Daenerys was not Jon's aunt in truth. "Indeed," Ned said tentatively. "However, I promised Ashara I wouldn't betroth any of our children to other lords. I told you that."

"What of Theon Greyjoy, my lord? He is no longer a boy. He is of age to marry and have heirs of his own. I heard he visited the few brothels near Winterfell and bedded at least a dozen women there. If Lyarra hadn't been affianced to Domeric since birth, Theon would be a good match for her."

Ned stared at him. "You think _Theon_ is good for Lyarra?"

"He is a Greyjoy and the heir to Pyke."

"Theon had been living with us for many years already. Even though you and a few others mentioned that Theon is more Stark than Greyjoy, do you think he'll be accepted by the Ironborn one day when he becomes their lord?"

"Honestly my lord…no. The Ironborn are not like southroners who will accept a stranger for their lord without much question." Maester Luwin paused. "Even southroners will not accept a stranger readily. My lord, if I was Balon Greyjoy, I would not think Theon is a true Ironborn."

Ned nodded thoughtfully. "Balon is a proud man," he admitted. "Much prouder than Vale lords." He suppressed a yawn. It seemed sleep was coming to him after all. Maester Luwin noticed. "I have kept you up," he said, rising from his chair. "If you so wish, I will speak to you again after breakfast."

"Perhaps after our midday meal tomorrow Maester Luwin, or even at supper. I have matters to deal with in the morning and lords to speak to in the afternoon before they leave for their homes. Maybe I should try and sleep for another hour or two. Oh, Maester? Please do not speak of your suspicions to the children. I am sure you wouldn't, but still."

"I understand Lord Stark. I'll tend to the ravens before I return to my bed." He dipped his head and left. Ned closed his eyes. He wished Ashara was at Winterfell. The younger children asked about her everyday – he promised she would come home soon. Maester Luwin gave helpful advice in the past, but he seemed to have a habit of bringing up betrothals in every conversation. When they discussed the replacements of old servants, Luwin would mention betrothals. When the subject was the children's education, the topic of betrothals would come up again. When it was reading letters…betrothals would be mentioned at least ten times.

Once when Robb and Lyarra were little, the topic of betrothals and marriages was an enjoyable issue of conversation between Ned and Ashara, especially after a long day of decision-making. Now…it felt like a chore. An uncomfortable chore Ned was reluctant to do.

* * *

 **Honestly I didn't think of making the creature Viserys. Good idea though! There will be more about Morbus soon :) Next chapter will be at Dorne with Ashara.**


	41. Ashara VI

The Water Gardens were beautiful. Winterfell was a formidable sight, but the Water Gardens…it was enchanting. Ashara breathed deeply and stared intently at the palace and entrances to the gardens. On the palace's left was a row of trees found only in hot, sunny Dorne.

"Beautiful is it not?" Oberyn Martell rode up to her on his stallion black as sin with a mane and tail the colour of fire. It was a Dornish sand steed – Ashara had recognised it at once by its long neck, slim build and narrow, beautiful head. She was also raised alongside a stable of fine sand steeds when she was a child. Sand steeds were the swiftest horses in the Seven Kingdoms; smaller than the average warhorse and unable to bear the heavy weight of the armour worn by a common warhorse, it was claimed that they were able to run for a day and night, another day, and never tire.

Ashara's own white palfrey almost died from exhaustion after she arrived at Starfall. Ashara doubted the horse would last a journey to the Water Gardens and as a sign of friendship (probably), the Martells gifted her, Allyria, Edric and Lord Beric Dondarrion each with handpicked Dornish sand steeds from the stables of Sunspear. Needless to say, Ashara was speechless. When the Dornish joined the war on the side of the Targaryens, all the sand steeds of Starfall were ridden by the Dayne men her late brother sent. All the Dayne soldiers were killed and their steeds stolen or murdered – Ashara had not ridden or owned a sand steed since. From Starfall to the Water Gardens, it felt good to ride a horse of her childhood again. It felt better that she rode a sand steed in Dorne too.

"It is charming," said Ashara quickly as she realised Oberyn was still waiting for an answer. "Absolutely charming."

"Charming? Is that all Lady Stark?" Oberyn grinned at her. "After a short stay here, I hope you will find more words to describe it."

Ashara smiled. "I'm certain I will Prince Oberyn." She turned to Allyria. "What do you think, Sister? Is it not beautiful?" Allyria nodded, her violet eyes as wide as dishes. If Allyria and Lyarra were ever together, Ashara was confident that a number of people would mistaken them for sisters.

"I thought I would be whisked away to Blackhaven after my wedding," Allyria whispered as Oberyn walked away to meet a friend or cousin. "I'm so pleased my lord husband allowed me to come here with you. I don't want you to go back to Winterfell, Ashara. The North is so far away!"

"I must return to Winterfell eventually Allyria…my children need me and Ned needs me too."

"You will leave for Winterfell after meeting Matysse?"

Ashara nodded sadly. "If I stay here too long, the Northerners will suspect I've abandoned them or something. I am one of them now, Sister. I was a Dornish girl and am now a Northern woman. You were born a Dornish girl and will grow into a lady of the Stormlands. Once you have children of your own, you will know how being a mother would feel."

"Why couldn't you have married a Dornish lord or a Storm lord? If you had, I would have the chance to see you more."

"Oh Allyria! If I could've, I would've married a Blackmont or a Qorgyle to stay near you and Starfall. However, for numerous reasons I married Eddard Stark of Winterfell. He is a good man Allyria. An honourable man. There aren't many good and honourable men anymore."

"Lord Beric is an honourable and good man."

"One of the few," Ashara agreed.

"Lady Stark! Lady Dondarrion! Do you not wish to come inside?" Prince Doran looked at them from his wheel chair. Ashara and Allyria dismounted from their horses and followed him in. For the second time, Ashara gasped at the beauty of the interior of the Water Gardens.

Not of stone, the courtyard ground she stood upon was paved with pale pink marble. Doran led them under a triple archway; Ashara sighed at the captivating sight of the pools and fountains filled with laughing children, the sound of their laughter and splashing a surprisingly sweet song to hear. Looming over the pools and fountains were many blood orange trees. Ashara could not help but laugh as she caught sight of a little girl with curly dark hair stalk around numerous pools, knocking oranges off the trees with what appeared to be a morningstar. Ashara turned and gave Doran a questionable look.

The Prince of Dorne chuckled. "A little terror is she not? She is one of Oberyn's daughters, Dorea. It was Oberyn who gave her that morningstar as a name day gift I believe. She had initially wanted a small child-sized replica of Dawn but has now declared that morningstar her favourite toy. Last time she spoke to me, she was deciding on a name for it." He wheeled himself closer to Ashara and pointed at a small girl trailing behind the morningstar-wielding Dorea Sand. She looked to be about five and had wavy dark hair tumbling down her shoulders. "Another one of Oberyn's daughters," explained Doran. "Loreza. See the girl over there in the purple gown? That is Obella. She and Elia – the one next to her – are always plotting." He laughed. "So like their father they are."

"Are your own children among them Prince Doran?"

"Only Trystane, Lady Stark. Arianne prefers to dwell in Sunspear and Quentyn is in Yronwood. I'm afraid Trystane lacks company these days. Perhaps he will be happier with…a betrothed at his side." He gave her a benign smile like an uncle would give a beloved niece.

"You are keen to have a Stark for a good-daughter," remarked Ashara. "Would it not be beneficial for Dorne if Prince Trystane married a highborn lady from the Reach or the Stormlands?"

"It would. I expect I will be having a Yronwood good-daughter one day."

Ashara nodded. "If you do not mind me asking Prince Doran, but what of your daughter Arianne?" She hesitated. "I heard you suggested a number of suitors for her – none of them…"

"Vigorous enough for my fiery daughter?" Doran supplied. "I thought marriage to an older man would settle Arianne down. What are your thoughts of the Lord of Greenstone, Lady Stark? An elderly man, but a kind and placid one. An almost perfect companion for Arianne. Besides, he is maternally related to King Robert. A fine match do you not agree?"

"Um…"

Doran chuckled. "Arianne refused to even meet him. We were invited to visit him at Greenstone but Arianne outrightly declined and left for Sunspear in a huff. Oberyn and his paramour Ellaria went on our behalf. I don't think old Lord Eldon Estermont was impressed with the notion of entertaining Oberyn's lover."

"Not many understand Dornish customs and traditions. Queen Catelyn will be most displeased if she is obliged to entertain your brother's paramour."

"Your are quite right Lady Stark. Quite right indeed." He looked at Allyria who was entranced by the beauty of the Water Gardens. "What are your thoughts of the advantage of a Stark good-daughter, Lady Dondarrion? Or would you try and convince me to have a Dondarrion good-daughter? Not many Dondarrions left in Blackhaven eh? Only you, Lord Dondarrion and his half-sister."

Allyria looked surprised. "Lord Don-my husband has a half-sister?"

"You didn't know, Lady Dondarrion? She is younger than you – Trystane's age I believe. Pretty girl."

"You met her before, Prince Doran?"

"Oberyn met her when he journeyed through the Stormlands. He told me that she was a slip of a thing and very shy."

"I hope to meet her soon."

Doran nodded. He beckoned for Oberyn to approach. "Brother, why don't you introduce Lady Dondarrion to Ellaria and your daughters? I would like a moment alone with Lady Stark."

Another moment alone? Prince Doran Martell of Dorne had requested to talk to her privately once a few days throughout their stay in Starfall _and_ the journey to the Water Gardens.

"My wife does not like the idea of fostering," commented Doran. "After I sent Quentyn to foster at Yronwood, I planned to have Arianne fostered at Tyrosh in an attempt to forge a strong alliance with the Free City. Mellario hated the mere idea of it and threatened to cut herself if I pursued the plan." Ashara managed to cover her look of surprise as Doran glanced at her. "Prince Doran," Ashara said tentatively. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Dorne is similar to the North," Doran answered. "For many centuries, princes and princesses of Dorne wedded Dornish lords and ladies like how the lords of Winterfell married Northern lords. We both embarked on change – you, a lady of Dorne wedded a Stark of Winterfell and I married a lady from Norvos. Out of all the regions in the Seven Kingdoms, I'd be honoured to ally Dorne with the Starks of the North. I'd be honoured indeed."

Ashara looked at him warily. "Prince Doran…have you suggested an alliance to my husband? He will make the final decision of a Stark-Martell alliance."

"Of course. The raven should be almost at Winterfell."

"Prince Doran, my son Brandon is already being fostered at court. Every day I worry for him – I don't even know what Ned is thinking." Words rushed out of Ashara's lips before she could stop them. "His father and brother died at King's Landing and now one of his sons, the one named after his brother, is at court in the pit of liars and actors." Her eyes widened as they met Doran's sorrowful and saddened ones. "Your…"

"My sister and her children died there too," Doran said quietly. "We both lost many loved ones."

"I…I didn't know what came over me Prince Doran."

Doran nodded. "No harm done Lady Stark. No harm done. I'm not asking for a marital alliance between our Houses, Lady Stark. If Lord Stark prefers, Trystane can be fostered at Winterfell-"

"I will write to my husband," said Ashara quickly. "One of my children will um, grow more accustomed to Dorne than your son to the North. I cannot promise a marriage, Prince Doran. A fostering…perhaps. It will all depend on Lord Stark. I'll help of course. I too can see the…the benefits of a Stark-Martell alliance." Ashara supposed there were a couple of advantages in the alliance Doran craved. A trade in wool and warm fruits for one; good horses for another. Ned told her that the Northern horses have adapted to the freezing winters. In Dorne it was never as cold (the coldest a Dornish winter was about as chilly as a late Northern autumn) but sturdy horses would be useful. As for defences, Ashara had yet to find one as beneficial as trade. Mayhaps Maester Luwin would help with that.

Doran smiled at her. "Thank you Lady Stark. Would you like to meet my dear cousin Lady Matysse?"

Ashara nodded. "That will be excellent." She followed him to one of the largest round pools filled with sparkling water. About ten children played in it, all with smiles on their faces. One of the girls looked up and beamed at Doran. She must be Lady Matysse Martell.

"Matysse," said Doran gently. "Come and meet Lady Ashara Stark. She is one of the aunts of your betrothed."

The pretty Dornish girl clambered out of the pool and nodded respectfully at Ashara. "Lady Stark," she said, pearly white teeth peeking from her smile. "It is an honour to meet you."

"An honour to meet you too," Ashara returned. As Lady Matysse Martell spoke pleasantries of the fine weather, Ashara studied her discreetly. Not particularly tall or short, Lady Matysse had a pretty smile. Her eyes were a shade of hazelnut brown – no doubt some part inherited from her Tyroshi mother – and her black wavy hair tumbled down her shoulders in ringlets. Her red dress was soaked and water dripped from the edges like diamonds. Ashara was confident Edric would like her within minutes of meeting her.

"How do you like the Water Gardens Lady Stark?" said Matysse politely.

"Very beautiful," answered Ashara, smiling warmly back at her. "I've arrived a short time ago. You've been here for a couple of years. How do you find living in the Water Gardens Lady Matysse?"

"It is so tranquil here my lady! It feels like paradise!"

Doran smiled indulgently at his young cousin. "My dear, why don't you go and prepare yourself? Your betrothed will be arriving early this evening. Lady Stark here will not agree to finalise your betrothal until you and Lord Dayne met and decide for yourselves if you wish to proceed with the betrothal."

Matysse dipped her head at Ashara. "Thank you Lady Stark. It is kind of you to suggest it. I am grateful."

"I want you and Edric to have a loving marriage," said Ashara truthfully. "Will you join us for supper tonight?"

"Of course Lady Stark."

Ashara continued smiling as she watched her future good-niece bid a cheerful farewell to her friends and head inside the palace. "She is a sweet and lovely girl," Ashara said to Doran. "I already welcome her as my good-niece."

"Excellent!" Prince Doran declared. "I look forward to the day Houses Martell and Dayne are joined in matrimony!" His dark eyes glittered like onyxes. "I will be delighted beyond belief if one day, the great Houses Martell of Sunspear and Stark of Winterfell will unite through marriage too."

* * *

Supper was peaceful and quiet yet Ashara could not stop smiling. A tired Edric had arrived with Lord Beric; all his weariness had vanished when Lady Matysse led him into the Water Gardens' Great Hall.

Dressed in a clinging gown of red samite with long sleeves of fine Myrish lace, a rope of blood red rubies sparkled from their place around her slim neck and her wavy hair was pinned behind her ear by a sun clip fashioned from rubies. Upon closer examination, Ashara noticed each ray was connected by a string of gold. It reminded her of the round shield Oberyn owned.

Ashara herself had donned one of her late mother's old gowns. As she had not expected to visit the Water Gardens, none of the Northern dresses she'd brought were quite…right. She was now a Stark of the North, the Lady of Winterfell in fact, and it was expected of her to wear the Stark colours. However, she was Dornish by birth and no one in Dorne particularly cared about house colours.

As the Prince of Dorne's most honoured guest, Ashara was seated at the high table quite closely to the Martells with Edric on her right (next to Matysse) and her sister Allyria on her left. Allyria was in a beautiful dress of black silk slashed with purple. Ashara smiled at her sister. Her beam disappeared as she caught a glimpse of Allyria's wane face. "Are you ill?" she asked, concerned.

Allyria shook her head. "The smell…"

"The meat? Would you rather eat something else?"

"No. I'm not hungry Ashara. I think…I think I'm with child."

Ashara's face illuminated with joy. "Allyria!" She wanted to hug her tightly and tell her the miracles of motherhood.

"Will my husband be angry if I have a girl first?" said Allyria worriedly. Ashara shook her head. "Lord Beric will love her as much as he will love a son. Have you confirmed your pregnancy with a maester?"

"Not yet. I thought I would find a maester here."

Ashara nodded. "We will find you one first thing tomorrow morning. Have you thought of names? Does Beric know?"

"Do I know what?" inquired Lord Beric.

Allyria beamed. "I am with child!"

A look of joy appeared on the Lightning Lord's calm expression. He kissed her on the cheek and whispered what sounded like, "I will love a son but a daughter will always have a special place in my heart."

"Have you decided on names?" Ashara asked again after congratulating Allyria and Lord Beric again.

"I just heard the news Lady Stark," said Beric, still grinning with happiness. "It is astonishing! Allyria, are there any family members or individuals you wish to honour?" He and Ashara looked at a blushing Allyria. She thought for a moment and said. "If it is a boy, Arthur. For the last Sword of the Morning."

A fair choice. "If a girl?" Beric asked.

"Daena," said Allyria, squeezing Beric's hand, "after your mother. She was of House Velaryon was she not?"

As Beric Dondarrion replied, Ashara turned to her nephew. "Edric, how do you find Lady Matysse?"

"She is interesting," Edric responded thoughtfully. "I never really spoke to a girl before. Like a girl around my age. At Blackhaven, if I'm not training, I follow Lord Dondarrion around and learn from him. At times I converse to Lady Jena – Lord Dondarrion's sister – but she is always sad. Lady Matysse is much happier and talks of more cheerful stuff."

"Why is Lady Jena always sad?"

"Her mother died when she was little and she watched her father die in front of her. That's what she told me."

Ashara arched an eyebrow. "She watched her father die?"

Edric nodded gravely. "Yes Lady Aunt. Lady Jena was eight years old when her father returned from the Greyjoy Rebellion. He was bleeding badly and needed a maester. When Lady Jena ran up to him in the courtyard, her father fell from his horse and died. Poor Lady Jena."

Ashara glanced at Lord Beric. "Yes Edric. Poor Lady Jena."

"Lord Dayne," said Matysse suddenly. "I am quite full." She patted her mouth with a linen handkerchief. "What about you?"

"Quite full," Edric agreed. "Will you honour me with a dance, Lady Matysse? I heard you are a graceful dancer." Matysse took his hand and the two went to the dance floor, leaving two seats empty between Ashara and Doran's youngest son, Prince Trystane Martell.

"You do not dance, Prince Trystane?" said Ashara politely. She thought Prince Trystane looked a little sullen. He had the same shade of olive skin as the other Martells and his black hair was straight. Trystane Martell poked his plate of lamb and stuffed grape leaves. He looked at her and said moodily. "I prefer Cyvasse to dancing Lady Stark." He forced himself to smile. "Forgive me for my rudeness my lady. I did not have a good day today. I won a few games of Cyvasse against some of the servants and was in a good mood – until one of my uncle's daughters told me that they lost on purpose." He scowled. "I told them not to lose on purpose at least a dozen times. Mors played well with me – until he slipped in a fountain and hit his head against the pavement. Then he died."

"I'll play if you teach me, my prince," Ashara offered. She had heard about the intriguing board game introduced to Dorne by a trading galley from Volantis. It appeared all over Westeros but it was most popular in Dorne.

"How long will you be staying in the Water Gardens?"

"I don't know…a few days? A week?"

Trystane said nothing. _He feels alone_ , Ashara realised slowly. _He's only a boy of eleven – Lyarra's age. He craves company. Family. Friends. True friends who are not afraid to tell the truth or challenge him._ Her eyes travelled around the room. Within seconds, they met Doran's. His were expressionless, impassive. That was when an idea crept into Ashara's mind.

* * *

 **Initially I hadn't thought to give the creature harassing Dany a name, but then I kind of got tired of writing 'the creature' over and over so I randomly chose Morbus as a name. Not very A Song of Ice and Fire-y haha. I have tests and assignments due this week so I might not be able to spend a lot of time on writing, but I'll try and update the next chapter in a few days.**


	42. Eddard XI

The dungeon door creaked open and Ned's heart thumped louder. He readied himself to interrogate this Morbus creature – he was not prepared. He rubbed his hands together; still not ready.

"You will tell us everything?" Robb pressed.

Ned nodded, more reluctant than ever. What if Morbus was some sort of killer tasked to murder his children one by one? What if Morbus was sent here to…to slowly convince Daenerys and Jon of their true heritage? He could be the person responsible for slipping Daenerys that ruby dragon pendant…

"Go and eat," Ned told him. "If you're not hungry, go and train in the courtyard or study in the library. Tell the boys that too. The last thing I want is a few of you poking around when I question him."

"Of course Father." Ned waited until his son left the dungeons before walking in himself. For the sake of the interrogation, Morbus was put in another prison room, one with iron bars for a door rather than one of solid wood. Theon almost lost a finger in the process of dragging Morbus in. Ned sat down on the provided chair and watched Morbus hiss, creak and crawl around on all fours. After what seemed like hours, the creature decided to face him, his thin fingers grasping the iron bars as he pressed his gaunt face against it.

" _Theeeee quiiiiet woooolf!_ " Morbus snarled.

"What are you doing here?" said Ned steadily. "Who sent you here?"

"Maaaaster told me to cooome. 'Gooo to Wiiinterfell,' he orrrdered. 'Gooo and fiiiind theeee quiiiiet woooolf,' he commaaanded."

"You found me. However, you harassed my ward Daenerys Sand. Why? Were you told to harass her?"

"Maaaaster told me to gggggive her a…a necklaccce! He said, 'dooon't cooome baaack uuuuntil you seeeeee the necklace arounnnnd her pretttttty neeeck…like a noose!" A horrible sick sound gurgled at the back of his throat as he let out an evil cackle. Ned suppressed a shudder. He wanted to run; he didn't. He remained rooted to his seat as he listened to Morbus's sneer.

"Enough!" he said sharply. "You will tell me everything I want to know or I will have you flayed." He bit his lip as Morbus howled with laughter again. He hoped he wouldn't be forced to torture him. Repulsive Morbus may be, he still doesn't deserve to be tortured. _He is a threat to your family_ , Ned reminded himself. He'd wondered if Lord Bolton would give him a quick lesson in flaying.

"Youuuu will noooot!" snarled Morbus. "Theeee quiiiiiet woooolf doesss nooot flaaaay or tooorture! Maaaster saaaid sooo!"

"I will. Your master lies."

"MAAASTER DOES NOT LIIIIIE! _YOUUUU_ LIIIIE!" To Ned's alarm, Morbus had begun slamming his head violently against the bars.

"MORBUS!" Ned raised his voice. The creature immediately stopped. With a pitiful whimper, he cowered back against the stone walls. "Maaaaaster," Morbus crooned, rocking himself back and forth. "Maaaster…"

"Who is your master Morbus?"

"Maaaster…"

"Who is he?" Ned repeated. "Morbus, tell me. Who is your master?" He waited as Morbus coughed flem from the back of his throat. Ned wrinkled his nose with disgust. Originally he'd planned to send Morbus to the Wall – Jeor Mormont _did_ want more men to take the black – after a thorough interrogation, but now…no one at the Wall would be able to control him.

"Maaaster was kiiind to meeee. He was sooo kiiind. He truuuusted mee…but I was a fooool. I revealed seeeecrets I was not suppoooosed to. Maaaster is kiiind, but he does not forgivvve so eeeasily. I beeegged and beeegged for mercy but my maaaster will not accept it. He wooould have kiiiilled meeee, quiiiiet woooolf. He wooould have kiiiilled meeee." His voice rose into a whine. "HE WOOOULD HAVE KIIIILLED MEEEE QUIIIET WOOOLF! HE WOOOOULD HAVE KIIIILLED MEEEE! I HAD NOOOO CHOOOICE!"

"Who would have killed you?" Ned prayed Morbus wouldn't say 'master'.

"MAAASTER!"

"Who is 'master', Morbus? Who is he? Do you want to be free?"

"Free?" Morbus cocked his head with interest. "Maaaster will set me free?"

"Tell me the truth and I will speak to uh, Master."

"Youuuu know my maaaster?"

"He knows me."

Morbus tilted his head to the other side as if thinking deeply. "Maaaster tooold me to cooome here," he said quietly. He sounded almost human. "Heee said thaat heee will forgivvve meeee once I finished hissss tassssk. Heee wanted meeee to say, stir up theeee waterssss. Heee said there is a dragon among the wooolves. I haaaad to giiive the dragon a necklaccce. A dragon necklaccce. Very pretty. Very preciousssss." He frowned. " _Preciousssss_."

Ned pulled the pendant from his pocket. "You mean this?"

A hiss escaped Morbus's slit of a mouth. "That very ooooone! Whyyyyy doooes theeee quiiiiet woooolf haaave it?"

"Who does it belong to?"

"THEEEE DRAAAGON!"

"Who is the dragon, Morbus?"

Morbus gave him a suspicious look. "Youuuu know whooo theeee draaagon iss, quiiiiet woooolf. Youuuu knoowwww."

"You tell me," Ned pressed. "I want to hear it from you."

Morbus cackled again. _Oh no_. Morbus creaked again, this time more gleefully and to Ned's horror, started to sing. "Whaaat doesss the Nooorth have but theee soouth doesss not? Snooow! Whaat doesss Doorne have but theee noorth doesss not? Saaand! Snooow! Saaand! Saaand! Snooow! Saaand and Snooow! Snoow and Saand!" He laughed maniacally. "Saaand and Snooow can cover maaany seecrets, quiiiiiet woooolf. Maaany seecrets…"

Ned was silent as Morbus began singing that vile song again and again. _Saaand and Snooow can cover maaany seecrets_ , echoed in his head. Sand and snow could cover many secrets indeed. Ned studied Morbus carefully. He was hideous, but if was not so emaciated or mad, he would not look so old. How did he manage to be hidden in Winterfell for months?

"Where did you hide in Winterfell?" Ned inquired.

"Heeere and theeere." Morbus sounded proud. "Fiiirst I hid in the staables and stole fooood from the kitchens. No one saaaaw meeee. Maaaster taught me welll, quiiiiet woooolf. Maaaster taught me welllll. If it wasn't for my maaaster, I would haaave diiiied on theeee streeeets of Fleeeea Bottommmm…"

Flea Bottom. Morbus was from Flea Bottom. An odd name for one who lived in the maze of twisty, unpaved alleys and cross-streets of the poorest area in King's Landing. Ned racked his mind for Flea Bottom dwellers; the only one who came to mind was Davos Seaworth, but he was now Lord of the Rainwood and a Storm lord. The name Morbus sounded…foreign. He always assumed Morbus was from Dorne or one of the Free Cities. Certainly not Flea Bottom! Ned wondered if he was truly from Flea Bottom.

"…I would have gone huuuuuungry if it wasn't for Maaaster…"

"Were you from Flea Bottom?"

"No. Maaaster threatened to throoow me onto the streeeets of Fleeeea Bottom if I didn't cooome here."

"Your master ordered you to come here to give a pendant to the dragon? You did. Why didn't you go home?"

"Maaaster didn't assssk me baaack."

"Your master left you here?"

"Yessss. He saaaaid I have not finishhhhed the taaask. Assss punishment, I was to staaaay here foreeeever." Morbus whimpered. "Maaaster cruel…heee saaaid I would be forgiven, buuuuuut he left meeee here to rotttttt!" His wail was louder than baby Rickon's cries. Ned felt a pang of guilt as he thought of Rickon. He and Ashara had agreed that Rickon would be their last child – seven children (eight if including Jon) were enough. By the time Ned was beginning his fostering at the Eyrie, there were not many Starks left. His mother had no brothers and many of his Stark uncles and cousins left no progeny. No doubt there were Starks in the mountains – the Starks were not particularly close to extinction. If Ashara gave him seven daughters, Ned would be just as delighted and would no doubt groom the eldest to be the future Lady of Winterfell. Legitimising Jon would absolutely be out of the question.

"Where did you hide after the stables?" asked Ned.

"Heeere and theeere. Sooometimes in the kiiitchens or in the rooooms of your seeervants. Nooone of them ever kneeeew." Morbus snickered. "Wheeen it waas waaarm, I hiiid in the godssswood. Theeee treeeees hid me. The treeees were my frieeeends. Theyyyy kept me saaafe."

"Safe? From whom?"

"Youuuu, quiiiiet wooolf. The yoooung wooolf, the siiiiilent wooolf, the flaayed maaan's son, the son of theeee iiironborn, the rose of theee Noooorth, the wiiiild puuup and even the Noooorthen staaar before sheeee desceeeended." _You, quiet wolf. The young wolf, the flayed man's son, the son of the Ironborn, the rose of the North, the wild pup and even the Northern star before she descended._ There was no way Morbus thought of those epithets on his own.

Ned bit his lip again. It had been a good many years since someone called him the quiet wolf. Robert called him that once – as a jape of course. It was his sister Lyanna who first named him 'the quiet wolf'. The wild pup? That seemed a cross between the late Brandon Stark and Benjen. No doubt it was Morbus's name for Arya. The Northern star…Ashara.

"Not the dragon?" tested Ned.

Morbus cackled. "The draaagon knooows nothing, quiiiiet wooolf. Nothing! It waaas my taaask to feeeed her theeee truuuth." He looked at him in the eye. "The truuuth," he repeated.

"How did your master infiltrate Winterfell?"

"Maaaster is like theee shaaadows. He can slip heeere and theeere at wiiill. No one seeees him as he wallllks in aaaand out. Maaaster is caaareful. Maaaster isss clever." His eyes shone with blatant admiration. "Heee can ennnnnter Caaasterly Rooock without theeee liiiions' knowledge…"

Ned closed his eyes. What Morbus described reminded him of the Spider…

"Is your master the Spider?" he said abruptly.

"Nooo. Maaaster is nooo spiiiider quiiiiet woooolf. Maaaster is maaaster. He is nooo spiiiider. When I am huuungry and the kiiitchens have no fooood to spare me, I eat spiiiders."

Ned shuddered with revulsion. Winterfell was always well-maintained; there weren't many spiders. Perhaps there were more spiders wherever Morbus hid. It was disgusting that he would eat them…or did he?

"Is your master Varys?" said Ned clearly.

Morbus made a strangling noise at the back of this throat. He creaked and his eyes swivelled around the room nervously.

"Tell me the truth!" Ned commanded.

The creature hissed. " _Yessss…_ "

* * *

Ned returned to his solar, utterly exhausted and puzzled. Varys…Morbus must have been one of his 'little birds' before he failed a mission of some sort. A _cruel punishment_ , Ned thought, _leaving a southroner in the North with no friend and a new task that will seemingly never end._ For a second, pitied Morbus. A stranger in King's Landing and more a foreigner in the North. A quick, clean death would've been more merciful. When Ned was forced to converse with Varys, he was never violent or spiteful…but something was always peculiar about him. It came as no particular surprise that a man like Varys would not forgive failure – especially in his line of special work.

Opening the door, Ned came face to face with the children, all of whom looked like they haven't slept more than an hour or two. All of them stared at him with a look of urgency and uncertainty. "Well?" said Robb eagerly.

"Nothing I say leaves this room," Ned warned them. They nodded. "He will be executed. Tonight. Privately."

"What?" exclaimed Daenerys. "So soon?"

"I have the answers I need. It'll only be worse for us if the guards find his dead body in the dungeon. I'd rather have him dead than know someone out there is willing to help him escape." No matter how unlikely. Varys had left him to his fate, but Morbus still seemed devoted to him. He may not know how to escape – or he might – but he was clever and resourceful. If he heard news of any significance, it would be likely that he would try and return to his master. As Lord Bolton loved to whisper, a naked man had few secrets, but a flayed man had none. Morbus was already skin and bone – once flayed, he would be a sack of bones.

Jon looked tentative. "What if he knows more than he's telling you?"

Ned rubbed his eyes and looked at him. "You despise Morbus do you not? You think him a foul, loathsome creature with a bulbous head filled with secrets? It may surprise you if I tell you I pity him."

Theon laughed. "Lord Stark! You must be japing!"

"I most certainly am not, Theon. I pity Morbus. Dany, I believe you said a boy gave something to you on a feast day?"

Daenerys nodded. "It was-"

"The boy. I believe him to be Morbus. I know it's hard to believe, but isolated in a strange place with no regular source of nourishment…that can turn any man into a vile, mad creature." He gazed at the children and they all nodded slowly, Theon the last and slowest. "Not all beheadings and executions are carried out as punishment," Ned told them, but mostly to the three heirs – Robb, Domeric and Theon. "Do you remember the deserter from the Wall? I had to execute him as he broke his vows and deserted."

"That was the day we found the pups," Jon remembered.

"Indeed. Domeric," Ned looked at the silent heir of the Dreadfort. "you wanted to kill the pups didn't you?"

"It would be an act of mercy," Domeric replied. Lyarra remained unfazed. She squeezed his hand comfortingly. "When it comes to old and lame animals, better to kill them than prolong their suffering."

"Not flay them?" snickered Theon. Robb punched him in the arm.

Ned nodded, ignoring Theon. "Same with executions. With many of them seen as an act of justice, a rare few can be merciful. I plan to execute Morbus privately as an act of mercy. He was tasked to come here and harass Daenerys. It was given to him as a sort of punishment by his master. I don't know what he had done to earn it, but I believe it was to do with failing a previous assignment. It was cruel as the master never recalled Morbus. He abandoned him here to die."

"Why not give Morbus proper food and drink?" suggested Lyarra. "If you do, he might be willing to talk more."

"I doubt he is capable of consuming them anymore," commented Domeric. "It had been a long time since he ate good food – he might think it is poison now and be more wary of us."

"I should speak to him," said Daenerys suddenly.

"No!" said Jon and Robb in unison.

"Can we torture him?" said Arya hopefully.

"No!" Jon and Robb shouted again.

"No and no," said Ned sternly. "Daenerys, you will not go near him. There are strong chances he may also be tasked to kill you. Arya, I do not want to hear you suggest or say that in my presence again. Starks do not torture those who are not in the right mind. Ever."

"Do Boltons?" said Theon, glancing slyly at Domeric.

Before Ned could snap at him, Domeric said calmly. "We do torture those who irritate us. There are many ways to torture one for the sake of torture. If seven years from now we become enemies and I capture you in battle, I'll be more than happy to torment you for a good week or two. As you constantly boasted about your oh so large cock, I'll start by butchering it off and feeding it to the dogs." He smiled broadly that was eerily similar to Lord Roose's cold smile. "What do you think of that, Greyjoy?"

Silence fell in the solar. Daenerys was white with horror, Lyarra unable to look at Theon or her betrothed, Arya's mouth wide open in shock and Robb and Jon both looking nervously at Theon and Domeric.

"We'll have no more talk of torture," said Ned, breaking the silence, "from any of you." A lump formed in his throat. "As a sort of joke, Morbus was sent to annoy Daenerys and cause discord in Winterfell. His master must have thought it a jape to frighten whom he thought was a weak girl all alone. He is mistaken. Daenerys is strong and has family. Like a pack of wolves, we'll always stay together and we never abandon one's own."

"Who is his master?" said Arya curiously.

"As a favour to me, I implore you do not ask me that tonight," said Ned, rising to leave. "When the time is ripe, I will tell you. That is a promise. Tonight, Morbus will be executed in the dungeons. I expect you boys to be there. Girls, it'll be for the best if you stay in one chamber tonight."

"I'll watch Morbus's execution," said Lyarra promptly. "As the future Lady of the Dreadfort, I intent to stand by my husband through victory and defeat. I'll be at his side when he brings justice to his lands, whether it means watching a man be beheaded or hanged."

Ned bit his lip. "I'll watch too," added Daenerys. "Before he dies, Morbus needs to know that he hadn't frightened me at all."

Ned sighed. "Very well." He looked at Arya. "I suppose you want to watch the execution as well?"

Arya nodded seriously.

"As you wish." Ned headed to the door. "I will see you all tonight then."

* * *

Ned found no joy in executing criminals and deserters. For the rare criminals, he usually sent them to the Wall. Better use for them to be sworn brothers of the Night's Watch than rotting corpses buried in the ground. Even if Morbus was not mad, he would be obliged to behead him – as punishment rather than mercy. He would not foist a nuisance like Morbus to the Night's Watch.

The dungeons were always freezing at night. The door creaked open and Ned found the children already there waiting, covered warmly in their furs. Silently they stood in a line. It was like the arrival of the royal party all over again. Giving them a nod, Theon placed a lump of wood at Ned's feet and Robb and Domeric dragged Morbus from the corner and forced him on his thin knees. Theon leaped back as Morbus tried to bite his leg.

"Do you wish to confess anything?" asked Ned.

Morbus hissed. He looked around and stared at Daenerys. With an evil grin, he creaked. Daenerys remained impassive. With a snarl, Robb forced his head down onto the lump of wood.

Calmly, Ned unsheathed Ice and said steadily. "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die." He lifted the greatsword and with a single sure stroke, took off Morbus's head.

As if on unison, everyone – including Ned – sighed. It was all over.

* * *

 **There will be a time jump (1 year) between this and the next chapter. It was supposed to be earlier, but I stretched out the Morbus plot slightly longer than I originally intended to.**


	43. Sansa II

Sansa's thoughts danced and sang with joy as the sight of Riverrun appeared in her view. After a year of isolation in the Eyrie, Riverrun was a much-welcomed spectacle indeed. She could not wait to enter the castle.

Her heart tightened as she remembered the reason her lady mother gave her permission to visit the Riverrun with the utmost reluctance.

Grandfather Hoster was dying.

When Uncle Edmure sent the raven bearing the news of Grandfather's illness, Mother refused to go. Sansa was horrified. She sensed that all the Vale lords were furious – especially the widowed Lady Waynwood of Ironoaks. If her mother was not Sweetrobin's regent, Sansa suspected Lady Anya Waynwood would strongly insist for Mother to visit Grandfather Hoster. When Sansa arrived at the Eyrie at about half a year or more ago, Lady Waynwood was first to suggest for Sansa to be her ward at Ironoaks. As a woman of good health, Lady Waynwood spent her time between Ironoaks and the Eyrie; she was more than happy for Sansa to stay with her at the Eyrie from time to time. Without even consulting Sansa, her lady mother refused the offer and said quite petulantly and rudely, "I'll never send my last daughter away from me – and to Ironoaks! Full of young men who will take advantage of my sweet and innocent Sansa."

Sansa closed her eyes for a second. She wished Mother had agreed to have her fostered at Ironoaks. Any place was better than solitude in the Eyrie. Besides, she was certain Lady Waynwood's sons were like the honourable knights in all the songs she loved. Besides, they were all too old to court her. She remembered how insulted Lady Waynwood looked when Mother declined the idea of fostering her at Ironoaks – even with her betrothed Harrold Hardyng there as a ward.

As she rode closer to Riverrun, she wondered about Harrold. What did he look like? Was he handsome? _Of course he is_ , she thought confidently. _Father would never want me to marry a hideous man_. Was he brave? Honourable? _Of course he is_. As a knight-to-be he would have to be brave and honourable. Knights were not knights if they were cowardly and deceitful.

The tall trees on either of the river road finally cleared – Sansa and her party of guards were almost at Riverrun. As if stating the obvious, Ser Vardis Egen rode up towards her. Ser Vardis was a heavily built man with a square, plain face with silver hair sticking out from under his helmet. His cloak, bearing the Egen sigil – a yellow sun, white crescent moon and silver star on a blue chief, above a white field – billowed around him as a sharp breeze swivelled around them. "My lady," he said gruffly. "We are almost at Riverrun. We'll be there by noon. Do you wish to stop and rest in the litter Lady Sansa?"

Sansa shook her head. "No thank you Ser Vardis. I'll ride the remainder of the journey to Riverrun. Carrying a little will be more inconvenient." She relished the fresh air and freedom. Even though Mother insisted for two dozen knights of the Vale, her septa and Nestor Royce's daughter Myranda. Myranda, or Randa, as she liked to be called, to accompany her to Riverrun, Sansa enjoyed riding without hearing her mother's shrilly voice. Myranda had declared Sansa her good friend. Sansa was not so sure. She was glad to have Randa for company in the Eyrie – especially when Mother was in her chambers grieving – but Randa oft said rather worldly words that made Sansa blush as she did not fully understand them from time to time but was too shy to ask what they meant.

"It is so warm is it not Lady Sansa?" Randa had spurred her chestnut brown palfrey up to her. "Much warmer than in the Vale!" Her cheeks were already pink from the heat. "Oh you are still so white!" she exclaimed as she caught a glimpse of Sansa's white hands. "I am as red as a strawberry while you are still so fair my lady Sansa!" Even on a horse, Randa Royce was shorter than Sansa. Randa tossed her brown curly hair again. "My! I'm flushed! Sweet Sansa, you will find there are plenty more activities that make you flushed!" She grinned slyly. Sansa felt her own cheeks redden. Randa laughed.

Sansa absently listened to Randa's endless chatter as the sandstone walls of Riverrun were even closer in sight. As they approached the drawbridge, one of the Riverrun guardsmen stepped towards them, grasping his sword. On his head was a fish-crest helm. "Halt!" he commanded. "Who goes there?"

Ser Vardis rode to him. "The Lady Sansa of House Arryn and her party! Lady Sansa is here to see her grandfather, Lord Tully." The guard looked at him before turning his gaze to Sansa. His expression changed instantly. Sansa smiled. He had noticed her Tully auburn hair.

"Lady Sansa!" the guard said, dipping his head. He turned and shouted at the other guards. "LADY SANSA ARRYN APPROACHES!" He looked at Sansa. "My lady, you may proceed with your uh, rather large party of guards." Sansa giggled and thanked him. With Ser Vardis and Randa on either side of her, the three of them rode across the drawbridge and into Riverrun.

"It is so beautiful," breathed Randa as they looked around. "Do you not find it quite different from the Eyrie?"

"Aunt Catelyn said the godswood will be the prettiest and sweetest godswood I ever set foot in," Sansa remarked. In the courtyard, she dismounted her palfrey and smiled when she saw Aunt Leyla and her Tully cousins heading towards her. Aunt Leyla's forehead was lined with worry and it looked as if she hadn't slept in days. All her cousins already donned black, a shade that seemed like a stranger in such a colourful and cheerful place like Riverrun.

"Cousin Sansa," said Cousin Hoster, striding towards her with a tired smile. "I hope you had a good journey here?"

"It was lovely," Sansa replied. She wanted to tell him how much she missed a long ride – now was not the time. She turned to Randa. "Cousin Hoster, this is my, my friend, Lady Myranda of House Royce. Myranda, this is my cousin Hoster, my uncle Ser Edmure's son."

Cousin Hoster nodded respectfully at Randa who smiled back. Sansa could not resist a cry as Melia ran up to her and hugged her. They hadn't seen each other in over a year! By the Seven Sansa missed her. They broke apart and Sansa studied her. Melia had grown taller and was more beautiful than ever. "I'm sorry we had to meet under these circumstances," said Melia sadly. "Father and mother talked of holding a tourney to celebrate Grandfather's recovery, but a few nights' ago, he had turned for the worse. The maester said that Grandfather would not be with us much longer…but he will leave us peacefully."

"I prayed for his recovery every day," said Sansa truthfully.

Melia glanced at all the Vale knights behind Ser Vardis. "Will you and your um, men rest and settle first or do you wish to visit Grandfather?"

"I'll see Grandfather first," Sansa said decidedly. "It will be good of you if you can give them food and drink. My mother insisted I am escorted by all these men from the Eyrie to Riverrun."

Cousin Hoster and Melia nodded. "I'll take Sansa to Grandfather's solar," Melia volunteered. "Lady Myranda, will you accompany us?" Randa shook her head. "I'll give Lady Sansa time with her family alone," she informed her. "Lady Arryn told me to come here to keep Lady Sansa company."

Leaving Cousin Hoster alone with the Vale guards, the septa and Randa, Sansa followed Melia through the Great Hall, up a spiral stairway into the keep and to the Lord of Riverrun's solar which was guarded by two men. One of them smiled at Melia. "Lady Melia. Here to see your lord grandfather again?"

"Myles," Melia responded. "You should be with Ser Desmond, not guarding my grandfather's door."

"Ser Desmond is busy training your little brothers milady. Your father deemed young Axel old enough to join Bryndon in training today."

"Axel is five, is he not?" remembered Sansa. When Sweetrobin was five, he was still crawling into Mother's bed at night and cradling a ragged doll Sansa had long discarded. Melia nodded.

"Who is this milady?" Myles the guard inquired.

"My cousin Sansa of House Arryn," Melia answered. "She has arrived about ten minutes ago and wishes to see our grandfather."

"Of course. Miladies." He pushed open the door and stepped aside. As a young girl, Sansa had stayed at Riverrun from time to time and played in the godswood and the keep and sometimes the rivers with her Tully cousins. When he felt well, Grandfather Hoster would watch them, a faint smile hovering on his face. After a while, he would have the servants bring them plates of lemon cakes and candied almonds and cups of juice squeezed from the juicy fruits grown in fields close to Riverrun. He once even gave Sansa a simple bracelet studded with sapphires that her mother left behind when she married. With a small nudge from Melia, Sansa stepped into the solar and was soaked by the warmth of the afternoon sun. She'd never set foot in the Riverrun solar before.

Her attention was drawn away from the vast window to the sleeping man with a beard and hair as white as his featherbed. Grandfather Hoster. Sansa walked to him and sat down on the provided chair. "Grandfather," she said softly as the frail man stirred. "Do you remember me? I'm your granddaughter Sansa."

Grandfather opened his eyes weakly. "L-Lysa?" he croaked hopefully. Sansa shook her head. "It's Sansa Grandfather," she said gently. " _Sansa_. Sansa Arryn." It fell on deaf ears as Grandfather Hoster struggled to sit up against his pillows. He stared at Sansa again. "L-Lysa?" he repeated. To Sansa's astonishment, tears filled Grandfather Hoster's deep blue eyes. "L-Lysa," he said again, his voice quivering as he reached for her hands. "I…I am s-sorry L-Lysa. Will you ever forgive me my dear child? I…I was only th-thinking of you…"

Riverrun's maester Vyman walked up to Sansa and said quietly. "Perhaps you can return later tonight Lady Sansa? I fear Lord Tully requires another cup of the milk of the poppy. I hope I'm not speaking out of term, Lady Sansa, but Lord Tully had been speaking deliriously for days…asking for your mother Lady Arryn. By any chance, will Lady Arryn be visiting Lord Tully, Lady Sansa? I believe he will die peacefully if she does."

Sansa shifted uncomfortably. As long as Sweetrobin remained Lord Stannis's ward in Storm's End, her mother refused to budge from the Eyrie. "Um, my lady mother had already forgiven Grandfather," she said quickly. "However she is too unwell to leave the Eyrie. She sent me here…in her stead."

Maester Vyman nodded slowly. "I see." He glanced at Melia who hovered near the door. "Lady Melia-?" Melia took Sansa's hand. "Come, Cousin Sansa. I'll show you your room. I thought it would be quite fun if you and I share a chamber for the duration of your stay. Lady Myranda has a room of her own. It'll be opposite ours." She added. "Are you hungry Sansa?"

Sansa shook her head. "Not anymore."

"I'll have lemon cakes sent to our room shortly then in case you change your mind. Do you need to borrow my clothes?"

Sansa shook her head again. "I brought my own. Honestly Melia, I would wear black like the rest of you, but Mother insisted I wear the Arryn colours. Mother is under the impression that I am attending festivities rather than visiting an ailing relative." She sighed dismally.

"I understand. Your mother isn't here though." She eyed her gown. "It's a very beautiful dress. Was it a gift?"

"Not exactly. My mother ordered me more gowns than necessary." Truthfully Sansa enjoyed standing in front of the large mirror in new dresses sewn by the skilful fingers of the best seamstresses from the Vale. Sansa still sewed her own gowns, but for formal occasions – including the journey to Riverrun – her mother insisted for her to wear the prettier gowns. "It will show the world you are the eldest daughter of the late King's Hand," Mother had explained more than once in the Eyrie. "You are a noble lady of House Arryn; you cannot go to Riverrun in old, plain clothes like a minor lord's daughter." She sniffed. "By the time your siblings return, they'll be more Storm lord and lady than from the Vale. That is what your father would _not_ have wanted."

"Melia! Melia!" A young girl of about four with ringlets of goldish-auburn hair raced towards them, her wide blue eyes sparkling with excitement. She stopped when she saw Sansa. "You are pretty," she said shyly.

"Thank you," said Sansa, smiling at her. "You are pretty too." The girl blushed and looked at Melia expectedly.

"Sansa, this is my youngest sister Elianor," said Melia fondly, patting the four year old on the head. "Last time you met her she was still being carried or started to tug Mother's skirts." Sansa crouched down until she was about Elianor Tully's height and said softly. "Hello Elianor. I am Sansa."

"Sansa," Elianor repeated slowly. Her sapphire blue eyes travelled to Sansa's lustrous locks of auburn hair. "Are you my sister too?" she said excitedly.

"I can pretend to be," Sansa offered. "I am your cousin."

"Cousin…why do you have red hair too?" Elianor sounded confused. "Melia has red hair, Hoster has red hair, Bryndon has red hair, Rosaline has red hair, I have red hair, Axel has red hair too and so does Papa. Grandpapa has white hair." She giggled. "I pretend it is snow."

"Sometimes cousins have the same hair colour too."

"Oh." She looked thoughtful. "Do you have brothers or sisters?"

Sansa nodded. "Two. A younger brother and a younger sister." A lump formed in her throat. At times she envied all the attention showered upon Sweetrobin or hated the inability to talk to Alyssa due to her young age; now she missed both of them greatly. She wanted to hear Sweetrobin's whining again; there was naught more she desired than to play with Alyssa.

"Are they here with you?"

Sansa shook her head. "They are far away. Very far away."

Elianor's lips quivered. "I don't want you to go away!" she burst out. "Axel said that highborn girls are all sent away when they grow up! I do not want to be left alone with the boys! They are mean to me! Please don't go away! You'll go away and be a mother, then Rosaline will too! Can you be like Aunt Malora? Mama says she still lives at home and is unmarried."

"We all have to marry and have children one day," said Melia, hugging her. "It will be years away. Years. What are our house words?"

"Family, Duty, Honour."

"Good girl. For the good of the family, we have to do our duty and marry lords Father chooses for us."

"Aunt Malora didn't marry."

"Aunt Malora isn't a Tully. Cousin Sansa's mama was a Tully. She married Lord Jon Arryn. Do you know who he was?"

"The Hand of the King before he died."

"Very good. Our aunt Lysa – Sansa's mama – was very lucky to marry the lord of a Great House who was also the King's Hand. You will be fortunate to marry a powerful lord too one day. You want Papa to be happy don't you? He will be very happy when you marry well."

"He will?"

"Yes dear Elianor. You are still little now. Go and play in the godswood. If Axel shows up and bothers you, tell him to go away. Can you do that?"

Elianor nodded and skipped away, waving goodbye to Melia and Sansa. Sansa smiled at her cousin. "You are good with children." Before Elianor could respond, Cousin Hoster ran up to them, his face bright with excitement. "Aunt Catelyn and the Blackfish are here!" he told them at once. "Father was worried they wouldn't be able to leave King's Landing, but they're here! Bryndon spotted the Baratheon standards a few minutes ago! Grandfather will be so happy to know Aunt Catelyn is here to see him!"

"That is brilliant!" exclaimed Melia. Sansa nodded in agreement. She could not wait to see Aunt Catelyn. The two of them had sent each other letters, but writing wasn't the same as speaking face to face. "There is more," added Cousin Hoster. "I was told by Bryndon that he spotted the Stark standards _behind_ Aunt Catelyn's entourage. Why are the Starks here?"

"It sounds like they are heading to war," commented Melia. She looked rather thoughtful. "What if the Starks are here to visit Grandfather, but maybe…I don't know…maybe they want a little more?" She looked at him directly in the eye. "A familial connection between the North and the Riverlands perhaps. Maybe Lord Stark is finally pursuing a southron alliance and wants his second daughter Arya to be the next Lady of Riverrun?"

Cousin Hoster's mouth dropped open. "No! Melia! That is a terrible idea! Our grandfather is ill and this is no time to discuss new alliances!"

"Why else would the Starks come south then? When he was well, Grandfather said that for Starks to go south of the Neck, something significant has occurred or will occur. A strong alliance between the North and the south will be momentous do you not agree?" As Cousin Hoster and Melia bickered, Sansa turned and stared out the window. Uncle Edmure and Aunt Leyla stood in the courtyard, waiting to welcome the royal party.

For months, she remained in the Eyrie like an imprisoned lady in a tower from the songs. The first couple of weeks was interesting and the tranquillity was very welcoming. Serenity did not last long. Mother had forbidden her to befriend the servants, especially Mya Stone, a tall and strapping young woman with coal-black hair who was a guide on the treacherous, rocky climb from the Vale to the Eyrie. Randa was friends with her – Sansa wished she was too. When Sansa was not in her chambers, spending time with Mother or sewing and talking with Randa, she sat in the High Hall and listened to the Vale lords defend or object to her already-standing betrothal with Harrold Hardyng. Lady Waynwood was the staunchest supporter in favour of the betrothal (unsurprisingly as Harrold was her ward). It still puzzled Sansa why she was required to attend the meetings held in the High Hall every day. Sweetrobin was the Lord of the Eyrie, not her. Besides, her future was to wed Harrold and bear his heirs – what purpose would listening and giving advice be in her wedded life? Then again, Nestor Royce insisted. Perhaps all the Vale Lords felt more at ease with an Arryn in attendance.

* * *

The mood at Riverrun had instantly changed the moment Aunt Catelyn came into Melia and Sansa's chambers the next day with a grim expression and tears in her eyes. Words were not needed.

Both girls cried. Strangely Sansa felt more devastated at Grandfather Hoster's passing than her own father's. Then again, she spent more time at Riverrun with her grandfather than at court and the Eyrie combined with Father. As the Hand of the King, Father had always been occupied with the king's affairs. After a glum and solemn breakfast consisting of eggs, bacon and bread, Sansa followed Melia, the other Tullys and the Riverrun household and their guests to the Red Fork for Grandfather Hoster's funeral.

As two of Riverrun's guards sombrely placed Grandfather's body onto a boat, Sansa noticed someone had dressed him in his armour and wrapped a silk Tully cloak around him, clasped by a silver fish brooch. His fingers were moved to hold an old sword and a hunting horn laid at his side. As her mother's representative, Sansa stood between Aunt Catelyn and Cousin Hoster as a pale Uncle Edmure drew an arrow from a quiver, his hand shaking violently. Aunt Leyla stepped up to him and whispered in his ear. Apart from the river's bubbling whispers, it was silent. _Even the birds do not sing_. The captain of the guard, Ser Robin Ryger gently pushed the funeral boat into the waiting mouth of the quiet river. Uncle Edmure notched the arrow onto the bow and Great Uncle Blackfish, lit the arrow aflame. Sansa wiped away a tear as the flaming arrow zoomed through the air. The flame fizzed as the arrow landed in the river. Uncle Edmure tried again and again; both arrows landed in the river.

Wordlessly, the Blackfish took the bow and arrow from Edmure. He turned to Ser Robin who lit the arrow on fire. _Zzzing!_ The arrow flew and lit the funeral sail aflame – it was a mere second before the boat disappeared downriver.

* * *

 **The year is now 299 AC. The next chapter is one I experimented with a Theon POV.**


	44. Theon I

When Theon Greyjoy entered the looming walls of Winterfell for the first time, he thought he would be trapped in a land of ice and snow forever. He thought he would be treated with hostility being a traitor's son, but Lady Stark was kind; her children accepted him as one of their own – most of them at least.

Over the years, Theon grew accustomed to the cold North and there was never a shortage of furs and warm clothes. Even though he would never admit it, Theon preferred the North to what he remembered of the Iron Islands. Of course when Lord Stark deemed it time, Theon would return home and eventually succeed his father as the next Lord of Pyke. At first he was excited at the possibility of going home with Lyarra as his bride…until Snow bluntly told him that Lyarra had been affianced to Domeric Bolton since infanthood.

Before Waymar left for the Wall, he had introduced Theon to the best brothels in the North. Nowadays Theon visited them twice a week, his favourite couple of prostitutes with dark hair, resembling Lyarra a little. Even now Theon desired to marry Lyarra. When he tumbled with the whores, he liked to pretend they were Lyarra. Every man had a dream woman – his was Lyarra.

 _I wonder if there is a whorehouse around here_ , Theon mused to himself as he strolled around Riverrun's Great Hall, glancing at passing ladies. Being a guest at Riverrun…something else he had not expected. Once the prosperous Riverlands was under Ironborn control. Theon wondered what it would've been like if it was still ruled by his father. Earlier that day, he attended Lord Hoster Tully's funeral along with Robb and Snow. Domeric had declined to visit Riverrun with them. "I doubt I'll be welcomed at Riverrun," he had said with a dry smile. "All those lords of the south shirk back at my house sigil." That was no excuse for him to hide out in Winterfell with his lady betrothed.

Accepting a goblet of light wine from a servant, Theon settled down on a chair and watched Robb murmur condolences to all the Tullys. It was easy to spot the Tullys by their flaming auburn hair and deep blue eyes. It seemed the Tully blood was strong; the late King's Hand's daughter had the same hair and eye colouring as her maternal family.

After Lord Hoster's funeral, everyone changed into clothes bearing their house colours or sigils. As for the Tully funeral custom itself, Theon could not help but find it strange. In the North, bodies were either buried in crypts or discarded into thick piles of snow during the middle of winter. Ironborn bodies were tossed into the sea to enter the watery palace of the Drowned God – Theon's god.

As Theon reached for another drink, he caught sight of a pretty girl talking to Robb. He stared at her. She was clearly young – a little younger than Lyarra by the looks of it – but was _beautiful_. Not sensually beautiful, but fresh…and rather sweet. Theon rose and sauntered over to them. "…and my sister Lyarra sends her regards and condolences," Robb was saying. He broke off and grinned as Theon approached. "Lady Melia," he said to the girl. "This is my good friend and Father's ward, Theon Greyjoy." He turned to Theon. "Theon, this is Lady Melia Tully, Lord Hoster Tully's granddaughter."

Of course the girl was a Tully. Theon berated himself for being so slow not to recognise a rope of braided auburn hair at the back of her head that separated in front of either shoulder like two rivers forced apart by a large rock. Theon could not help but feel more stupid as he saw she wore a blue gown striped with dark red – the Tully colours.

Lady Melia tilted her head slightly and nodded at him. "My lord."

"My lady," Theon responded, smiling warmly at her. "My condolences to your lord grandfather's death. I heard he was a good man."

"Thank you my lord. He was."

"You were with the royal party at Winterfell were you not?"

"Of course. My aunt is Queen Catelyn, my good-uncle is King Robert Baratheon the First of His Name and two of my royal cousins are the heir to the Iron Throne and Princess Lyanna, my lord Robb's betrothed."

"You are very well connected my lady."

Lady Melia snorted – or was it a laugh? "By the good fortune of my birth," she pointed out. "And you, my lord Theon? You must be blessed by the Seven to be a ward of the great Lord Stark."

Theon stiffened. "I'll go…and…" said Robb quickly. "I'll just…go. Lady Melia, it was a pleasure to meet you again."

"As it was meeting you, Lord Robb," returned Lady Melia. As if sensing Theon's discomfort, she looked at him, concerned. "Have I offended you my lord? If I did, I apologise most humbly. My brother Hoster often said that I speak before I think, a most unladylike habit I confess. Cousin Sansa had also warned me that knights like you would not appreciate young women like me."

"I'm…not a knight my lady." Melia's eyes widened. "I watched you spar against Lord Robb in Winterfell!" she exclaimed. "With your skill, Lord Stark must have knighted you by now!"

"The North do not have many knights. Most Northerners are of the old gods and think knighting one for exceptional skill is a waste of time."

"Oh." She sounded disappointed. "Do you miss the Iron Islands?"

Theon paused. Of course he missed his childhood home…in a way. The scent of the salty sea air would wake him early in the morning and he would slowly drift to sleep listening to the song of the sea. However, he wasn't fond of the memories of his family. His father was always in a temper, his older brother Rodrik a drunk and brute and his other brother Maron a talented liar with a gift for telling cruel japes. Theon was not sorry when he heard of their deaths. For a drunk and a liar, they did a terrible job fathering children, trueborn or baseborn. Before their lord father decided to foolishly rebel against King Robert, he'd married Maron to Lord Jason Mallister's daughter Tarra in an attempt to secure Mallister neutrality with Tarra as a Greyjoy good-daughter. That didn't stop Mallister from killing Rodrik at all. Speaking of Lord Jason Mallister…the said lord walked passed Theon and Lady Melia, giving him a suspicious look with his fierce blue-grey eyes.

"My lord?"

"Everyone misses their home," said Theon uncertainly.

"Tell me about the Iron Islands."

"You don't want to hear about the North?"

"The North is interesting but I already visited it. Even though you're a ward of Winterfell, you are still an Ironborn."

 _I am still an Ironborn_. "A southron lady such as yourself will find Pyke a rather windy and uncomfortable place to live," said Theon truthfully. "The women there wield axes and dirks as well as any man and every man is king of their vessels in the sea. You may find their behaviour…shocking."

"Sister." A grave boy with a mop of auburn hair and deep blue eyes emerged at Lady Melia's side. He scrutinised Theon for a good minute before he said, "Melia, Mother wants you to go and speak to Lord Blackwood. His sons are with him too," he added. "All six of them. And his only daughter. With so many Blackwoods here, you'd think they are having a family reunion. Oh, Mother said you must speak to Lord Bracken too. Best to do so after you finish with the Blackwoods. You know how the Blackwoods and Brackens are at a tiny and unintentional slight."

Melia nodded and gave Theon a small smile. "I hope you enjoy your stay here in Riverrun. Good day Lord Theon."

Theon dipped his head. "Lady Melia." The boy lingered behind when she went off to speak to other waiting River lords. "You're a Greyjoy," he said flatly. "You're Lord Stark's ward aren't you?"

"Yes," said Theon, taken back at the abruptness. "And you are?"

"Hoster Tully. Melia's brother."

Theon wanted to kick himself. It should be no surprise that the new Lord Tully would name his heir after his own father. "I see," said Theon shortly. "So what if I am a Greyjoy? I have no desire to take your sister as a salt wife."

Young Hoster narrowed his eyes. "Would you if this was a war?" Theon didn't even bother to state that it was more an honour to be a salt wife rather than to be raped and left in a pillaged land. He shook his head. "Of course not. I despise the custom of taking salt wives." It was partially the truth. When he married and was bored of his wife, he would take mistresses or visit brothels. Marriage would not change his lifestyle.

"Do you talk like this to everyone Lady Melia speaks to?" said Theon, crossing his arms testily. He disliked the heir of Riverrun by the second.

"Considering many of the young men here are from the Riverlands, no. Father encourages me to associate myself with the River lords' heirs." Crossing his arms, Hoster stepped forward. "I heard tales about you." Theon bit back a laugh. Hoster was a head and a neck shorter than him. It was amusing to see him attempt to be menacing. "It was said you bedded every tavern wench in the North," said Hoster, eyeing him. "It was also said that you would've bedded Lord Stark's daughters…if they weren't highborn maidens."

Theon barked out a laugh. "Very flattering Tully. Very flattering indeed. I'd no idea that stories of my…adventures would fly down to the Riverlands!"

Tully did not smile. "Stay away from my sisters," he warned. "I still puzzle over why Lord Stark's son and bastard are here. You…I can't think of one good reason why you're here at all. You must be proud that your ancestors ruled over the Iron Islands and the Riverlands. All I think are tales of pillage and rape. Your presence here doesn't help."

"No Greyjoy ruled over the Iron Islands. Why should you care about the past? I am my own man! I don't carry the sins of my father! Besides, when the Ironborn controlled the Riverlands, it was centuries ago!"

"Stay away from my sisters." Shooting him a final scathing look, Tully stalked away to a group of boys around his own age. Theon scoffed. Southroners were so overprotective. Are all Rivermen so hostile to Ironborn? He dismissed it. The boy probably just learnt about House Hoare or something. It's not as if he had lost an uncle or brother in the Greyjoy Rebellion.

'How was the Lady Melia?" Robb joined him. "She looked quite animated when she spoke to you."

Theon shrugged. "Hoster hates me."

"You _did_ win a mock battle against him in Winterfell."

"How is that me at fault? I knew how to wield my sword properly! Besides, he was more or less accusing me for being Ironborn."

Robb snorted. "You _are_ Ironborn."

"I've been your father's ward for ten years. Do you think I will ever go home to Pyke? I haven't went home in ten years."

"Winterfell's your home as much as Pyke is. You're heir to Pyke. One day in the future, you will return to Pyke and with it, an alliance with the North. Friendship between the Iron Islands and the North – a jolly good plan is it not?" He grinned at Theon. "Who knows? Maybe one day the North will have a Greyjoy for a Lady of Winterfell and perhaps a Stark Lady of Pyke."

Theon grunted. "At least you are betrothed."

Robb laughed. "Is this what it's all about, Theon? Are you jealous that I have a betrothed and you don't? It hadn't bugged you for years."

"By the Drowned God no! I have whores to satisfy that!"

"You need to have heirs one day." No doubt a strong Northern woman able to survive the bleak Iron Islands – Theon suspected a Mormont. The Ironborn won't be pleased to have a Mormont for their liege lord's wife. After all, it was said that an Iron King lost Bear Island in a wrestling match to Rodrik Stark who gave it to the Mormonts. Then again, Theon wouldn't mind a tough Mormont wife like Lady Maege Mormont's eldest daughter Dacey.

"I think one of Lady Melia's cousins dared her to speak to you," said Robb with a chuckle. "Look." He nodded as two other red heads clustered around Melia. "It seems Lady Melia is more interested in pleasing her friends than listening to you talk about the Iron Islands." All three girls were now giggling and glancing at him and Robb once in a while. Theon shrugged. They were only little girls. He looked at them again. "Whose that one on Melia's left?" Robb studied the girl Theon had indicated with a discreet nod.

"Eyeing another girl Greyjoy?" said the bastard Jon Snow, slipping up to them with his usual impassive expression. He glanced at the girls Robb studied. "Ooh, careful there Greyjoy. Those are no tavern girls."

"I know." Theon rolled his eyes. "I'm not an idiot Snow. I don't go around to a brothel spilling my seed in every wench I bed." He eyed Jon. Jon said nothing. He continued staring ahead silently. _Typical Snow_ , Theon thought. _Says nothing and does nothing. Just like his direwolf. It was fitting for him to name it Ghost_. He felt a pang of envy. The wolves were loyal to their masters – more loyal than a dog or horse would ever be. At least Grey Wind was left behind in Winterfell. Lord Stark had declared that southroners haven't seen direwolves in a while – or at all – and it would be seen as some sort of threat by the River lords if Robb was to bring his direwolf with him.

"A Tully?" guessed Robb. He was still studying the girls Theon nodded at a few minutes ago. "All three of them have the Tully hair."

"That's Sansa," said Jon knowledgably. "Sansa Arryn." Both Theon and Robb looked at him, surprised. "I heard Lord Frey talk about her."

" _Lord Frey?_ " Robb said, astounded. "The Late Lord Frey? I heard he can barely walk! What is he doing here?" Theon doubted it was to pay his respects. He never met the prickly Lord of the Twins, but rumours were that he was married to his eighth wife – a girl young enough to be his granddaughter – whom he'd already impregnated. If any lord was able to create an army from his breeches, that man would be the weasel-faced Lord Walder Frey.

"There he is." Jon nodded at an old man seated at one end of the high table, his skin as wrinkly and old as parchment. Theon wrinkled his nose in disgust as Lord Frey smacked his lips with his pink slug of a tongue. Robb shuddered. "What did the old weasel say about the late King's Hand's daughter?" wondered Theon. "Did he want her for his ninth wife?" He chortled. "I doubt anyone would agree to the match – especially our pretty little bird over there."

"Why a bird?" said Jon, glancing at him curiously.

Theon rolled his eyes. "I thought Maester Luwin reprimanded me for my lack of memory over House sigils, not you Snow. House Arryn's a falcon."

"What was old Frey saying?" said Robb quickly.

"Mostly mutterings to his uh, wife," answered Jon. "Poor lady. I was looking at the tapestries when I heard old Lord Frey mutter, ' _eh_ , there goes the honourable Lord Stark's bastard all high and mighty. _Heh_. There's old Arryn's daughter.'" Jon paused. "He licked his lips again and said, 'what a blooming little flower _eh_? Much beautiful than you Joyeuse. Her future husband will be a very lucky man, _heh_. Her sweet, sweet honey will be all his.' Then he smirked." Theon almost doubled over as he barked with laughter. "Her _honey_?" A highborn maiden glared at him as she headed to Lady Melia and Lady Sansa.

"Old Frey probably wanted me to wed one of his weaselly granddaughters or daughters," jested Robb. "Careful Greyjoy. He might want one of his daughters to be the next Lady of Pyke." Theon shuddered. He had not actually met a Frey girl, but after spotting Walder Frey himself…

As if the old weasel knew they spoke about him, he beckoned at them with a bony finger. The three boys looked at each other. "We can pretend we didn't see him and walk away?" suggested Jon.

"Easy for you to say, bastard," said Theon immediately. "He'll think it a slight if Robb and I ignore him. A weasel he may be, but he _is_ a great lord and is the Lord of the Crossing. Sadly."

"Besides, we have to cross the Twins to return home," Robb pointed out. "We might as well go and hear out what Lord Frey wants to tell us." Theon reluctantly followed him to the high table, Jon behind him. "Lord Frey," Robb said politely as the three of them stood in front Walder Frey.

"Ned Stark's heir," grunted the old weasel. His squinty eyes swivelled to Theon. A wave of dislike surged over Theon. "Balon Greyjoy's heir." He glanced at Jon, a smirk appearing on his face. "The honourable Lord Stark's bastard. _Eh_. Snow, are there no bastard girls left in the North for you to marry that you came south? You need to look no further. I have daughters and granddaughters to marry off. What would you prefer, Snow? A fat girl? A thin girl? An old maid? A child?"

"I have no intention to marry of yet," said Jon loftily.

"A pity," sneered Walder Frey. "A pity." He looked at Robb again. "I would have given you the choice to wed any of my female offspring if you weren't betrothed to King Robert's elder daughter. _Heh_. When you were still in the cradle, I wrote to your father and offered him any of my children to be his good-daughter. Did you know that he never wrote back? Honourable… _heh_." He sniffed and narrowed his eyes. "What of you, eh?" he barked at Theon. "Would you take one of my girls to those islands of yours as your wife eh?" _By the gods no_. Robb shot him a warning look. _Don't you dare offend him_ , his violet eyes seemed to be shouting.

"I am Lord Stark's ward," said Theon carefully. "As my guardian, it's up to Lord Stark to choose me a suitable bride."

"Suitable eh?" Spit sailed from Frey's mouth. "Lord Tully – the late Lord Tully now, _heh_ – refused my children for his own. Three times he celebrated the births of squalling Tullys and three times I went to Riverrun with some of my brood in tail, suggesting my sons for his daughters and my daughters for his son. _Heh_. The late Lord Tully said no every time." Before Theon, Robb or Jon could speak, Frey barged ahead. "When I spoke to other lords of fosterings… _heh_. Tully had rejected to foster my sons and grandsons at Riverrun and went ahead to foster some Vale boy from a lowly house! Old Arryn refused to foster any of my grandsons in the Eyrie even when I offered to foster his son at the Twins. _Heh_. Old fool. Both Tully and Arryn are now dead." He sounded pleased.

Robb frowned. "Lord Frey-"

"I didn't call you here to rant, boy. Clearly your father thinks I am too beneath him to negotiate with."

"Negotiate, Lord Frey?"

"Your house words. Winter is Coming. _Heh_. I doubt you can survive without a large supply of grains and food. We need furs and you need food. Easy to remedy do you not think eh? Best solidified through marriage. _Heh_." Frey snickered and cleared his throat. "You're affianced to Princess Lyanna Baratheon and I have no desire to earn the king's wrath by breaking your betrothal even if I could. _Heh_. I'd be a fool if a did. _Heh_. You have a sister betrothed to a Bolton and two others, one a child and another older than her. I plan to discuss with Lord Stark of a marriage between one of your sisters and one of my sons or grandsons. In any case, I want to hear what you think of a marriage between your half-brother here and one of my bastard daughters. I have two," he added to Jon who paled from the shock of the prospect of receiving a bastard Frey bride or the idea of marriage.

"Again, I must discuss it with my lord father," said Robb stiffly. "We are here to pay our respects to the late Lord Tully, not deliberate over marriage contracts or alliances." At that moment, Theon thought Robb acted more noble than before. It seemed as if Robb was the Lord of Winterfell.

" _Heh_. I have two," said Walder Frey with a smirk. "Jeyne and Mellara. Join my party on your return journey to Winterfell. Meet the girls. You might like one." He guffawed. "You too, young Greyjoy. I'd like an Ironborn descendant or two. What do you say, Robb Stark? Will you and your company come and stay at the Twins for a few days or so? Upon my word of honour, there will be no bloodshed there. _Heh_." Theon did not feel convinced. If it was up to him, he would never set foot in the Twins in his life. The less time with Walder Frey the better.

"We are honoured Lord Frey," said Robb finally. "However, I must decline. As a good son, I must obey my father's orders: to return to Winterfell once we finish our business here in Riverrun."

To Theon's surprise, the Late Lord Frey sniggered. "Run back to Winterfell to your father then, little pup. _Heh_." Robb nodded curtly and walked away with Jon and Theon behind him. Theon glanced back. Walder Frey was still laughing.

* * *

 **There will be one more chapter in the Riverlands. I'm mostly using the Riverlands chapters as experiment chapters for potential POVs hehe. Here is a list of lords and their children (I'm never going to make the mistake of creating so many little Starks, Baratheons etc again - definitely learnt my lesson). Again, there'll be an appendix at the end of Part 2.**

 **Ned and Ashara: Robb (15), Lyarra (12), Arya (10), Bran (9), Gwenysse (6), Arthur (4), Rickon (1) + Jon (16)**

 **Robert and Catelyn: Lyanna (14), Orys (12), Ormund (9), Minisa (5)**

 **Stannis and Cersei: Shireen (12), Steffon (10), Cassana (10), Robert (8), Myrcella (5), Tommen (3)**

 **Jon and Lysa: Sansa (11), Robert 'Sweetrobin' (7), Alyssa (5)**

 **Edmure and Leyla: Hoster (12), Melia (11), Rosaline (9), Bryndon (7), Axel (5), Elianor (4)**

 **Let me know if I missed anyone :)**


	45. Lyanna I

The wind fluttered around Lyanna as Uncle Edmure failed to set the boat's sail on fire for the third time.

The eldest daughter of King Robert and Catelyn Tully bowed her head to hide the pain soaring through her heart. She pushed a strand of black hair behind her ear – a habit of hers when she was in thought. If she had the power to decide her home, she would have chosen Riverrun. During her frequent visits (especially in her childhood), Grandfather Hoster would be the father she craved for. Lyanna's father might be the king, but truthfully, he was not a good father. He never went near a goblet of wine, but it hurt Lyanna that her royal father preferred to spend his time hunting or bedding a long host of prostitutes.

 _Zzzing!_

Lyanna looked up. Great Uncle Blackfish had successfully lit the sail on fire. In his weary blue eyes was grief. Since Lyanna was able to quietly listen to talk from passing servants or courtiers, she learnt about the famous story of the Blackfish and Lord Rowan's wife, Lady Bethany Redwyne. What a tale it was! She watched the funeral boat flow downstream of the Red Fork. Before the illness caught him, he would give her splendid gifts in person on every name day. Once it was a plate of lemon cakes and a silver trout necklace; another time Grandfather gifted her with a small chest made of weirwood that was carved with trout and stag motifs; and on her tenth birthday, he treated her to a tour of the Riverlands. From all her name day gifts, Lyanna loved and remembered the Riverlands tour the best. She visited the castles of every River lord and the entire expedition lasted roughly a week and a few days. Her heart thudded. The Riverlands tour was Grandfather's last long journey too.

"Lyanna," her mother said gently. "Come. There will be lords wishing to offer their condolences to us."

"Why isn't Father here?" murmured Lyanna, staring as the boat disappeared downstream. "Grandfather was his good-father."

Mother gave her a strained smile. "Your father is a busy man. A king no less. If he was able to come, he would. Your grandfather helped him win a war – that is something he would never forget. Come. The lords are waiting. Do you think you will be able to manage on your own for a while?" Lyanna nodded. She knew what was expected of her. "Go and rest Mother," she said softly. "No one expects you to remain here for condolences. Your father died – it is in your right to mourn your father in private. I'll handle all the lords here. Go and rest Mother. I know you've not slept well during our journey here."

"The lords will think it a slight-"

"No they wouldn't," said Lyanna soothingly. "They are mostly River lords and they knew you since you were little. They will understand."

Mother nodded reluctantly. "I will join you at supper," she said uncertainly. "If it is too much, come to me."

"I will Mother." Giving her a kiss on the cheek, Mother excused herself and left for her chambers swiftly, two of her knights trailing behind her. With a quiet sigh, Lyanna headed to the Great Hall and approached her uncle Edmure, his blue eyes glazed with tears. "Uncle," she greeted. "My sincere condolences."

"Thank you princess," Uncle Edmure responded. "My father had held you close to his heart since you were born. When he was in the right mind, he would often talk about the tour of the Riverlands he took you on when you were a little girl of ten. It was one of his most fondest memories."

"He must be proud of you too Uncle."

"Lysa should've been here." He glanced at Sansa Arryn a few feet away. "Until he died, Father was calling for her. It is good of Sansa to come here, but I fear that Father would've died more content if Lysa saw him."

"Aunt Lysa must have reason not to come here." Lyanna would've spoke more but caught sight of Lord Bracken approach them. "Princess Lyanna," the Bracken lord said with a dip of his head. "Lord Tully. Condolences for your loss on behalf of House Bracken. Lord Hoster was a good man. A kind liege lord."

"Thank you Lord Bracken. Much appreciated."

"If you need aid in any way Lord Tully, you can trust me." Lord Bracken gave Lyanna a benign smile which turned into a scowl as his life long rival Lord Tytos Blackwood came towards them. "I will…go," said Lyanna hastily. Blackwood and Bracken feuds could erupt into violence very quickly. She hurried away and met up with Sansa, Aunt Lysa's daughter. Upon closer examination, Sansa didn't seem like the same girl she was at King's Landing a while ago. "Cousin Sansa," Lyanna said warmly. "Such a dismal time to meet do you not agree?" Sansa smiled at her and nodded. "I hope Grandfather died peacefully," she murmured. "He did naught to deserve a painful death." She shuddered. "Your mother must be quite upset at Grandfather's passing."

"We all are sweet cousin. Uncle Edmure will be an excellent Lord of Riverrun, but I doubt Riverrun will be the same again."

Sansa nodded in agreement. "No more surprise lemon cakes."

A giggle escaped Lyanna's lips. She had quite forgotten that Sansa loved lemon cakes as much as she did. Now that she thought about it, all her younger brothers and sister loved lemon cakes – especially Minisa (her first couple of words were 'le-mon' and 'ca-ake'). Mother often jested that Minisa would grow into a plump little ball of sweetness when she was older. "There's a big platter of lemon cakes over there," Lyanna noticed, nodding at a long table groaning under the weight of plates of food and flagons of drink. "Shall we go and nibble a few?"

"I see Melia already started without us," Sansa commented. Her eyes twinkled a little. "Oh, Cousin Hoster is with her too." The two of them walked up to Hoster and Melia who were, to no one's surprise, arguing again.

"Do you argue with your siblings as much as they do?" Sansa asked Lyanna. _I wish we did_. Lyanna shook her head. "I see them less frequently than I hope," she said honestly. "Minisa is too little to talk or argue with and the boys…we're often too occupied with our duties to argue. Ormund has Bran Stark for company and by the end of the day, Orys would be too tired. At times we would only say 'good morning' or 'good night' to each other. Uncle Stannis had insisted that as the heir, Orys is to sit in a few council meetings as well as continue his education."

"Poor Orys. Is he here?"

"Not yet. It was decided that Orys will come here a few days later. Orys is very excited about it and Uncle Stannis thought it would be educational for him to get to know his future subjects and different geographical locations or something. It is quite typical of Uncle Stannis to bring an educational reason into a game or in a journey." She refrained herself from rolling her eyes.

"…you're not Lord of Riverrun yet," Melia was saying, holding a lemon cake in one hand and a blackberry tart with the other. She spotted Lyanna and Sansa and beamed brightly. "There you are! I was about to look for you!" _Once you finish a lemon cake or two._ "Arguing again?" said Lyanna dryly. "Surely you have run out of topics of argument by now! What is it this time? Melia, did you embarrass your brother in front of visiting lords?"

"Princess Lyanna," said Cousin Hoster with a quick bow.

"Please, call me Lyanna. We're cousins after all."

"Very well, _Lyanna_."

"Hoster is under the delusion that I'm flirting with the boys here," said Melia, glaring at her brother. "I never flirt."

"You were," Hoster insisted.

"I doubt it," said Lyanna with a smile. "Melia is too well-behaved to flirt. Melia, Hoster is a good brother who is looking out for you. I'd be grateful if he was my brother." Melia frowned. "Orys will never accuse you of flirting."

"Just stay away from that Stark boy." He began to walk away. "Cousin!" Lyanna called. "Will you not taste a lemon cake?" Hoster paused. "I dislike lemon cakes," he said rather stiffly. "I find them too sweet."

"Ignore him," Melia advised her. "He's always a grouchy soul. Mother said it's his own way of mourning Grandfather. Accusing me of flirting! Hmmph!" Rolling her eyes, she nibbled her lemon cake. "Why is your betrothed here?" she asked as she finished it. "It is odd do you not think? He is no River lord's heir. I do wonder why he is here with his half-brother and Theon Greyjoy."

Lyanna nodded. "I do too."

"Hmm."

Sansa arched an eyebrow. "You're not planning to speak to him again are you? Your brother already thinks you flirt. Foolish of him too."

Melia looked thoughtful. "Oh no," said Lyanna, catching a glimpse of a gleam in her eyes. "You're going to flirt with him aren't you?"

"That is quite unladylike," said Sansa uncertainly. Lyanna nodded slightly. She appalled the very idea of it. Melia crossed her arms. "Do you know what those of the North have started saying?" Lyanna shook her head. "They are comparing the weak and frightened to me," said Melia, shaking with rage. "I thought it was just a rumour, but Hoster told me that he heard Lord Stark's bastard say to Robb Stark, 'are you too afraid like that Melia Tully?'" Lyanna stifled a smile. "I'll show those Northerners I am not afraid!" Melia ranted on. "In fact, I'll wager two lemon cakes that I'll have a lengthy conversation with…with Theon Greyjoy!" She blushed. "I'll go to him right now if I must!" For a second, Lyanna wondered if Melia consumed a goblet or two of summer wine. Melia Tully was never this bold before…on the other hand, the results would be interesting. Very interesting indeed. When she met Theon Greyjoy, she thought him too cocky for his own good.

"Oh don't Melia," Sansa pleaded. "The thought of it is horrible enough!"

"Your Vale friend flirts all the time," Melia pointed out.

"Randa! Myranda Royce is older than us and-"

"Come now Cousin Sansa! Any day now your mother would summon you back home. Don't you want to see something fun before you leave?"

"I don't see how you flirting with Theon Greyjoy twice is fun."

"Well…that and annoying my brother again."

"Theon Greyjoy isn't like the honourable Starks Grandfather had talked about in his stories," Lyanna warned. She heard the tale of her namesake Lady Lyanna's abduction over a dozen times – a story her father thoroughly enjoyed retelling – and if she had to compare Theon to a Stark, the closest she could come to was the Lady Lyanna's brother, Brandon Stark. "Your parents will be most upset if Theon um, takes away-"

"I'm not _that_ stupid." Melia rolled her eyes. "Do you honestly believe I will give away my maidenhead so freely like a woman from the brothels?"

"Theon can be persuasive," Lyanna said doubtfully. "Do you remember him in Winterfell? I don't like the look he was giving us."

"He'll be a fool if he tries to seduce me. Father will have his head. I'll just go up to him and…talk."

"He is much older than you."

"So? Poor Lady Joyeuse Erenford is married to Walder Frey." Both Lyanna and Sansa shuddered simultaneously. Lyanna wondered how Lady Frey's father even agreed to marry his daughter to that creepy old man. She cringed as she recalled the banquet at the Twins she was obliged to attend during her Riverlands trip. It was the dullest and most dreadful moment in the entire tour. Grandfather had no desire to visit the Twins, but knew it would be a slight if they didn't.

"Take care," said Lyanna with a defeated sigh. "I hope you'll be delighted when your brother finds out. Tell us what happens afterwards." She ignored the rather shocked look Sansa shot her. It was not much fun playing the part of a gracious and simpering princess every day, especially in a court sprouted with flatterers and schemers. Living in the harsh, honest North was something Lyanna actually looked forward to.

"Princess Lyanna." Lyanna turned and smiled as Robb approached. "On behalf of House Stark, I offer you our condolences."

"Thank you my lord," Lyanna answered. "How is Lady Lyarra?"

"In excellent health though unhappy that she must be parted from Domeric for a few months very shortly," Robb Stark responded courteously. "Lord Bolton had requested for his son to return to the Dreadfort for some time. I strongly suspect that Lyarra will ask Father to join him. She is still young, but old enough to live in her future husband's home."

When was he so polite? He sounded more kind in his letters…"How are your other sisters and brothers?"

"Quite well too my princess."

"My lord, I thought we are friends!"

Robb smiled slightly. "So we are, Lyanna. So we are." He glanced at Sansa. "My lady, may I have a minute or two alone with the princess?" A little startled, Sansa nodded. She smiled at Lyanna and edged away to talk to a Blackwood lady. "I am glad you are well," said Robb awkwardly.

"I am too," Lyanna said uncertainly.

"To be honest, Lyanna, I am not only here to pay my condolences. I wanted to come here to see you." Robb's cheeks flooded with colour. "I know that there will be little to no chance of seeing you again. The king will not visit Winterfell again, and my father will not send me to King's Landing in a great hurry. I'd hoped that we would meet again…before we wed."

Lyanna nodded. "I hoped for that too," she admitted truthfully. "A few days in Winterfell with you and your family…I wanted more time. I wished to learn more about you, your sisters, your brothers, your father, your mother, the North…I…I wanted to learn to be a Northerner before I married you. I didn't want to be seen as a stranger or a plain southroner when I become your wife."

Robb stared at her, astonished. "Lyanna! You have already impressed all of my father's lords on the night of the welcome feast! The lords of the North know you are no plain southroner – you're the king's daughter! The lords all know that our fathers have been friends since they were boys and are pleased to receive you as my future wife and the next Lady of Winterfell. Lyarra speaks highly of you and even Arya likes you! You have nothing to worry about, Lyanna. There will always be a place for you in Winterfell." He smiled at her. "Have I rid you of all your fears, my lady Lyanna?"

"Every single one of them my lord Robb. I thought we would wed in Winterfell, but my father insists for it to be held in King's Landing."

"In the Great Sept of Baelor?"

"No, no. In the godswood. It isn't as beautiful as your Winterfell godswood, but my father wants our wedding to be memorable. He said that there will be days of feasting and tournaments."

Robb shuddered. "Your father does not expect me to compete in the tourneys does he?" he asked worriedly. "I never actually participated in them before…" His voice trailed off.

"You can participate in the melee. Think of it like…like a training session."

"People often die in melees."

"I saw you train at Winterfell." Sensing her betrothed's queasiness on jousting and fighting in melees, Lyanna changed the subject. "Is Grey Wind here?"

"In the kennels. Grey Wind will frighten the other River lords if I allowed him to roam Riverrun. Lord Tully will not be pleased either." He hesitated. "Lyanna, I know this is quite a lot to ask, but…can you do me a favour?"

"Of course."

"When Bran left for King's Landing, he left his direwolf behind. It was fine, but now he started howling at night and nothing we do can quieten him. Our maester suggests that the direwolf longs to reunite with his master. According to old texts in Winterfell's library, direwolves have strong relationships with their masters. I am not going to King's Landing, but you are."

Lyanna's mouth dropped open. "You want me to take a direwolf back to King's Landing for Bran? A howling direwolf?"

Robb looked sheepish. "Yes my lady. Bran's direwolf is very well-behaved. He won't bite or harm you."

What would Mother think of it? "I…I must think about it my lord," said Lyanna, her mind reeling through shock and disbelief. "I have no desire to separate Bran from his direwolf, but I don't know what direwolves eat, and I don't know how to care for one. What do I tell my mother?"

"Take your time thinking about it Lyanna. If you agree, meet me at the kennels tomorrow morning. Take your friends with you if you so wish. I've written down a list of helpful instructions to help you. He won't be much trouble."

"What is his name?"

"Bran hadn't named him yet. Calling him 'Bran's direwolf' is a handful."

"Where does Grey Wind sleep at night?"

"In my room as Ghost sleeps in Jon's, Lady in Lyarra's and Nymeria in Arya's. It saves space for other dogs in the kennels. Besides, Nymeria refuses to leave Arya at all!" Lyanna forced herself to smile, but she could not imagine her married life including sharing a bedchamber with her husband's pet direwolf. What next? At breakfast she'll be forced to share a plate of bacon with Grey Wind?

"At times Grey Wind wanders Winterfell's corridors," Robb went on. "He does not sleep at the foot of my bed every night."

"Must we um, share a room with Grey Wind when we are wed?" asked Lyanna, regret stabbing her immediately. "Would it not be odd if um, if he watches us, um, fulfil our duty and bring forth an heir?"

Robb blushed. "By the gods I haven't thought of that. I'll arrange for Grey Wind to be in the kennels when we sleep as a married couple. My sincere apologies if I have offended you in any way."

"I accept your apology Robb." Lyanna smiled at him again. "I've kept all of the letters you sent me."

"I did too. I was actually in the middle of writing you one before I set out with Jon and Theon for Riverrun."

"Oh? What were you writing?"

Before Robb could answer, Melia ran up to her, grinning from ear to ear. "You should have seen Hoster's face," she announced triumphantly. He beam vanished as she caught sight of Robb. "Forgive me for my unladylike outburst my lord," she said, red in the face.

"All is forgiven Lady Melia," said Robb smoothly. He nodded at Lyanna. "I hope to see you a second time before our departures my princess. Again, House Stark's condolences for your lord grandfather's death. My father considered it an honour to fight alongside him and he greatly respected him. I wish your lord uncle Tully well as the new Lord of Riverrun." He nodded at Melia. "Lady Melia. Condolences on your grandfather's death."

"Thank you my lord," replied Melia. She and Lyanna watched Robb join Theon again. Lyanna looked at her cousin. "How was it?"

"I pity him," said Melia flatly. Lyanna raised an eyebrow. "You _pity_ him?" That was certainly not what she expected to hear.

"He misses home yet he puts on a brave face. All those rumours of him…Theon didn't sound proud of it as much as I thought he would. He is different from what I heard about him."

"He is trying to _charm_ you," said Sansa, joining them. "This Theon sounds like my um betrothed, Harrold Hardyng."

"You should stay away from him," Lyanna advised. "Charming or otherwise, I don't think your father will approve of you talking to a man like him. Perhaps one time is enough. Twice is too much."

Melia sighed. Her eyes brightened. "Lemon cake?"

* * *

 **I'll try and regularly upload one or two chapters on Fridays or on the weekends from now on, but I might spontaneously decide to upload one during the week depending on my mood. Haha House Frey should have an appendix of its own! I actually copied out the list of Freys (in case Internet dies on me unexpectedly, which actually happened once last week) and wow that took up a lot of space! :)**


	46. Catelyn VI

The journey back to King's Landing was dull. Every time the royal party went passed a village or holdfast, Catelyn felt a dull ache in her heart. When she, Lysa and Edmure were little, their father loved taking them with him to the castles of his bannermen when he felt in the mood to travel. Since she was a girl of six, she had journeyed throughout the Riverlands from the dreary Twins down south to the seat of House Vypren.

From Riverrun to King's Landing, Catelyn was miserable. Her party travelled on River Road, pausing briefly at Lord Keath's castle and Lord Harroway's Town for a short respite. Catelyn's palms almost bled as she dug her nails into them to stop herself from weeping when one of the knights declared that they will rest in the inn at the crossroads for a night. Catelyn knew that tavern well; she'd rested there a number of times when Father was alive.

"You holding up Cat?" said her uncle quietly, sliding onto the seat opposite her, handing her a mug of warm ale.

"Trying to," murmured Catelyn, taking a long sip. "It's hard."

"I know. Despite our quarrels, I still thought Hoster my brother. I always will. I wished we could rest our heads somewhere else tonight, but not many inns near River Road or Kingsroad can provide chambers good enough for a queen."

"For a day or two, I wish I am not Robert's queen. I want to be Catelyn Tully of Riverrun, not Queen Catelyn of House Baratheon." Uncle Brynden shook his head with a sad smile. "Impossible little Cat," he said forlornly. "You are the queen and will remain queen till your death. If Lyanna Stark had lived, she would have been the queen and you would've been the Lady of Winterfell."

"The Seven had different plans, Uncle. Lyanna Stark is gone but my daughter will be their new Lyanna Stark once she marries Robb Stark."

"You will always see her again."

"She won't be my little girl forever."

Uncle Brynden nodded and said softly. "That's what your father used to say to me when we weren't fighting. When we talked about you, Lysa, Edmure and even Petyr Baelish, your father would oft say you wouldn't be children forever."

"He was rambling to me before he died," Catelyn recalled. Her mind suddenly cleared from a fog of misery and despair. "I thought he was delirious in his last days – Maester Vyman even said he had his delirious moments – but he called me Lysa…he kept calling me Lysa…and apologising."

"He must've regretted wedding Lysa to Jon Arryn. Poor Lysa was devastated when she was told the news."

"I remember…" Catelyn faltered. "There's more."

"What is it?"

Catelyn glanced around. "He kept muttering a word," she whispered. "Tansy. I don't know what it means. Father kept saying it. Did he…did he ever have um, a mistress when he was alive? I know he had no natural children or open affairs at Riverrun, but…oh Uncle! Please tell me the truth! Did my father ever have a small infatuation with a common girl named Tansy?"

"If he did, I was not told about it." Uncle Brynden looked thoughtful. "Having a mistress would've been huge for Hoster. He would've told me if he did fall in love with a girl, even a commoner."

"Maybe he was afraid of what having a mistress would do to his reputation as the Lord of Riverrun and a father?"

"Perhaps. He still would've told me anyhow. If this Tansy girl was with child, I wager Hoster would either send her away whilst giving her a regular amount of money to raise the child or have raised the child as his own."

"What does it have to do with Lysa?"

"Maybe Lysa somehow found out about Tansy and to hush her up, he sent her, he wedded her to Jon Arryn?" Catelyn frowned. If Lysa discovered an important secret, she would've been all giggly and told her anyway. Lysa was never one for keeping secrets. Besides, as a child, Lysa was never particularly observant in the schoolroom or in games.

"I'll look into the matter," Uncle Brynden promised. "Cat, you have your duties to attend to when we return to King's Landing and I'll try and do what I can do to find out about this Tansy. Maybe write to Lysa? She might know more about this than both of us!"

"I wish I asked Sansa," said Catelyn wistfully. "The poor girl lived in solitude in the Vale with only Lysa for company for about a year. She might've heard or saw something regarding Tansy. She's only a little girl and might not be aware of the significance of what she witnessed. I'd hoped I would be able to retain Sansa for a few weeks at court, but I worry about Lysa. Ever since Jon's death, her letters had become more infrequent and sound quite unlike the Lysa I know. Even the letters from Sansa are rare now. I wish I can go to the Eyrie someday, but as queen, it is my duty to stay in King's Landing."

"Summon Lysa and Sansa to King's Landing when it is the king's name day. I'm certain they won't miss grand celebrations. Invite this Harrold Hardyng too. I'm interested to meet this young man who Jon named as Sansa's betrothed."

"Their betrothal was unexpected, but clever in Jon's part."

"Do you believe Lord Stannis will change Sweetrobin into a proper lording? I pity Lysa for losing both her son and a daughter to Lord Stannis Baratheon, but if there is a man who can transform Sweetrobin, it would be Lord Stannis. I will be saddened if Sweetrobin turns out as hard as Lord Stannis, but better a hard man to rule the Vale than a whining boy."

"Lysa will hate it."

"Aye, but Lysa had always been soft as a girl. Not a bad quality, but she is now a mother, not a mere girl. She must grow up, and quickly. How will she be a good example for Sansa?"

"Sansa is a bright girl, innocent and kind." She stopped talking and smiled as the innkeeper, Masha Heddle, delivered them their hot meal – a bowl of soup, a thick slice of buttered bread, a large portion of chicken and a flagon of ale – with a quick curtsey and a broad grin that revealed her blood-red teeth, which Catelyn remembered was caused by her continuous eating of sourleaf.

"Milady queen," she said excitedly. "An honour to have you here again!"

"Masha," Catelyn tilted her head. "Good to see you too."

"Are the little princes and princesses here too, milady queen? Shall I fetch 'em some nice sweet cakes?"

"How kind of you Masha! Only my eldest is here. Lyanna."

"A lovely princess Your Grace."

"Thank you Masha."

"Condolences on your lord father's passing my queen. Lord Hoster Tully was a good lord, a fair lord. My condolences."

"Thank you Masha." Catelyn picked at her food. She wasn't particularly hungry but forced herself to eat a bit of warm chicken and bread. Her uncle watched her and nodded approvingly. "Eat up Cat. Hoster would have wanted you to remain in good health rather than wither away. Here." He pushed his bowl of hot chicken broth towards her. "Eat it Cat."

"I don't think I can."

"Try, Cat. I hope you'll have a good sleep tonight. I'll guard your door; the two other household guards can look after Lyanna."

"You need to rest too Uncle."

"Bah, I had plenty of nights without a good sleep – one more will not matter. I will not rest easy until we return to the Red Keep. The last thing Hoster told me – it was a few years ago – was that bandits have been spotted roaming the nearby roads, robbing travellers and merchants in their way. Imagine their delight at the prospect of robbing a queen! Now that Edmure's Lord of Riverrun, I suspect they will be much bolder."

"Edmure will rule fairly."

"He hadn't killed a man, Cat, and he is still young. Hoster taught him the best he could." His forehead creased. "If I wasn't of the Kingsguard, I would help him the best I can. I shouldn't have accepted that white cloak so quickly. At first it was to spite Hoster…I was a fool wasn't I?"

"What is done, is done. You're a fine knight of the Kingsguard and my husband appreciates you protecting him." Catelyn stood up. "I'll eat more in the morning," she promised. "I'm…tired. I think I will retire early."

* * *

Catelyn's mood only soured when she rode into the Red Keep. Right there in front of her was young Edric Storm in a sparring session against his uncle Renly, who laughed good-naturedly when Edric knocked the sword from his hand. She gritted her teeth. _Bastard_. It still bewildered her why Robert decided to have two of his dozen bastards raised in the Red Keep along with his _trueborn_ children. It was still a complete mystery to her.

"Your Grace!" said Renly cheerfully, flourishing a bow as he noticed her. Edric stopped and bowed too. Catelyn ignored him.

"Lord Renly," she acknowledged. "You seem to be in a fine mood today – quite odd considering young Edric here just defeated you in a round of sparring!" She curtly nodded at Edric. She found no point ignoring him. Edric and the other one would crop up that day anyway. They always did.

"I'm in an excellent mood, dear good-sister," Renly agreed. He strode forward and gallantly helped Lyanna dismount her horse. "In the latest council meeting, it had been decided that I will remain a happily unmarried man for another year or so! Is that not glorious?"

Catelyn frowned. "You are betrothed to Lady Margaery."

" _Were_ , my queen. _Were._ "

Catelyn arched an eyebrow. "Were, Lord Renly? How is this possible? You and Lady Margaery have been betrothed since you were children! Was there a reason for an end to your betrothal?"

"The usual arguments and my dear brother Stannis finally had enough." Renly smiled charmingly. "Lord Tyrell refused to wed his daughter off to a landless lord and insisted for Stannis to give up Dragonstone for me – something dear Stannis wouldn't do of course. He claimed that Dragonstone would fall if I ruled it from here. Funny, I do not see him visiting that wet island monthly. When Mace Tyrell suggested that I have Storm's End instead; a mistake on his part. You should have seen Stannis's face my queen! It looked as if he wanted to kill him!"

There was no surprise there. "What did Robert say to this?"

Renly shrugged. "He was out hunting."

"He was hunting?" Catelyn repeated. "Robert was out hunting? It is unwise to have the Reach as our enemy!"

Renly laughed languidly. "Oh my dear good-sister! You worry too much! There is peace in the Seven Kingdoms and Mace Tyrell would be foolish to launch a war against the Iron Throne. Yes he has a large army, but apart from his Reach lords, who will support him? Lord Stark is Robert's best friend, Lord Tully is your dear brother and Lord Lannister is Stannis's good-father."

"That leaves the Greyjoys and Martells, both who have good reasons to rebel against the Iron Throne."

"You have four children my queen! Lyanna's betrothed, but the other two can be used to forge new friends eh?"

Catelyn was too tired to argue that her children were still children. She hated to think they were naught but bargaining chips or cows in a market. Robert was not particularly interested in finding spouses for their children, but as the Hand of the King, Stannis – and Jon Arryn before him – were ruthless in making strong alliances with her children as ironclad pieces in agreements. She wondered who Stannis planned to wed her Orys to.

"I'm willing to marry for the good of House Baratheon Your Grace," said Edric Storm proudly. "I am the king's son after all."

 _The king's bastard you mean_. "I'm glad to know," said Catelyn stiffly. "I see you have been sparring with Lord Renly."

"Indeed Your Grace! Yesterday the king allowed me to hold his warhammer! I had to use both hands to hold it Your Grace!"

Catelyn froze. Her lips tightened as the bastard's beam broadened. "Now was that not an honour?" she said sarcastically. "Holding the great King Robert's own warhammer! A tremendous honour indeed!"

"Quite!"

"Lord Renly, Edric," spoke Uncle Brynden. "Her Grace is tired. I hope you don't mind if Her Grace retires early?"

"Why of course!" exclaimed Renly. "My queen, allow me the honour of leading my niece to her chamber? I'd like some time with my sweet niece." Catelyn gave her consent with a quick nod.

"Uncle Renly," said Lyanna, smiling at her uncle. "I hope you are well." Catelyn gave her a swift kiss on the cheek before dismounting her horse and heading to her chambers, Tully knights behind her. _Robert should never have allowed that bastard of his to touch his war hammer,_ she thought, entering her rooms. _What if Edric thinks he has rights to the Iron Throne?_ Her heart hardened. Orys was heir to the Iron Throne and no bastard would replace him. She gestured for one of the maidservants to approach. "I'd like to bathe," she told her. Before she could take the pins out of her hair, she heard a knocking at the door. One of her usual guards came in and said, "The king is here."

"The king?" said Catelyn, surprised. "Here? Now?" Robert hardly visited her in her private rooms unless it was at night. Even then, it had become rarer after she gave birth to Minisa. It seemed Robert preferred his whores and tavern wenches after siring two sons and two daughters. At first Catelyn was hurt – wouldn't any woman be? – but over the years, she grew used to an empty bed. She also learned that Robert never slept with the same woman twice. She was relieved that he had not slipped to drinking. It had took her a while to convince him to reject wine – a personal victory. It was also the only victory Catelyn recalled. After sixteen years of marriage, she still felt she married a stranger. Robert called her, "dear Cat", but it felt empty, not like the way her father used to fondly named her his 'little Cat'. From Lady Stark's letters, Catelyn envied her relationship with Lord Stark. Their marriage was a success and they loved each other – a rarity in political matches indeed. Catelyn wasn't as lucky as Lady Ashara Stark.

"Cat," said Robert awkwardly, closing the door behind him quietly. "You well? Your father was a good man. It was an honour fighting with him."

"He died peacefully," said Catelyn softly. "Thank the Seven for that."

"Aye. He was also a good Master of Laws. Much better than Ser Kevan. I didn't expect you back so early Cat. I thought you would've stayed at Riverrun for a few more weeks to mourn with your family."

"You are my family." Catelyn's tone was flat, almost mechanic. "My husband. It is my duty to be here with you."

"Eh, duty. Lyanna well? Not too upset I hope?"

"Sad of course. She loved her grandfather as much as he loved her. She spoke to young Robb Stark at Riverrun too. I am glad she had a chance to speak to him before their wedding."

Robert perked up with interest. "Robb Stark was at Riverrun? What for?"

Catelyn shrugged. "I don't know. Northerners are strange, Robert. So different to us of the south. Their ways are more…blunt. The Starks are good people, but I do worry if Lyanna will survive in the cold North and be happy. I never dreamed that my daughter will be leagues away from me when she is wed." She laughed a little. "I know it sounds childish, but I never thought I'd marry a Northern lord or a king either. All thanks to a war, I'm married to a king and my daughter engaged to the Lord of Winterfell's heir."

"It is a good match Cat," said Robert gruffly. "For me, it is more than that. Ned is as much my brother as Stannis and Renly and he will be family once Robb and Lyanna are married. It is a dream I always wanted."

"You named our daughter Lyanna," Catelyn could not help saying. For sixteen years, she had held her tongue. She accepted a Northern name for her daughter – not today. "You gave her a Northern name," she continued. "It sounded like you planned to marry her to Lord Stark's heir even if he happened to be ten or twelve years younger than her."

Robert snorted. "That would be highly unlikely Cat. I wouldn't marry Lyanna to a babe when she is a maiden!"

"I know you still love Lyanna," said Catelyn rashly. Robert stared at her. "Not our Lyanna," Catelyn added. " _Her._ Lyanna Stark. Even if Rhaegar Targaryen took her maidenhead, you still would've married her." Robert flinched. Catelyn gave a hysterical laugh. "By the Seven! You hardly knew her! What was she? A Stark and a pretty face? Was that all you remember of her? Would you have wed all four of our children to Starks if you could?"

"Seven Hells no!" grumbled Robert. "What is wrong with you?"

Catelyn wiped away angry tears. "You hardly know me! After sixteen years of marriage, you still hardly know me! I know I am no Lyanna Stark, and I'm naught like her, but have you tried to know me?"

Robert sighed. "You are a good woman Cat," he admitted. "I always thought I didn't deserve a woman like you. You kept your silence all those years…only the strongest of women can do that. You raised our children well and treated my um, bastards better than any woman would. I'm grateful, Cat."

Catelyn folded her arms. "Did you spend time with our sons when I was away in Riverrun, Robert?"

"Why would you ask that?"

 _No more_ , a voice inside Catelyn's head begged. _This is not you_. "I heard Renly is no longer betrothed to Margaery Tyrell," said Catelyn hastily. Robert nodded, his eyebrows raised with astonishment.

"I heard it this morning from Stannis," he affirmed with a derisive snort. "That man never liked the Tyrells and would've done anything to break that betrothal between Renly and Lady Margaery. It was that uptight pride of his, I wager. Even as a child, Stannis had always been so unyielding. He refused to relinquish either Dragonstone or Storm's End to Renly. Fool. Doesn't he know that it would only lessen that damned burden of his? I could just take Dragonstone from him, but I need Stannis as my Hand with Ned remaining in Winterfell." He sighed. "Thank the gods for Jon Arryn, Ned Stark, Hoster Tully and Stannis. All hardworking and honest men. Without them, I would've led the Seven Kingdoms to disaster! Bah, no more talk of this."

Catelyn nodded in agreement.

"What about joining me for a hunt tomorrow?" suggested Robert. "You are a fine rider. You should try hunting Cat!" Catelyn smiled and nodded. "I'll be happy to go hunting with you tomorrow," she replied. She hated hunting, but at least he was attempting to spend more time with her. He never really invited her on one of his hunting trips before.

"The children can hunt with us!" said Robert enthusiastically. "It is time they go hunting! Lyanna, Orys, Ormund, Brandon Stark, Edric and Gendry!"

"Wouldn't it be dangerous?" said Catelyn, concerned.

"Not at all!" Robert laughed, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. "They will have the Kingsguard protecting them. It will be fun, Cat. We will have a big feast afterwards to celebrate our successes! I've hunted all my life and I am still here – only ignorant fools and arrogant idiots die whilst hunting."

* * *

 **Catelyn's no Cersei, but after being married to Robert for so long and being dutiful and all, Catelyn needed to vent out in anger like at least once. What do you think of season 6 Game of Thrones so far? :)**


	47. Jon II

"You are going to Dorne," Lord Stark told him last night. "I don't know how it came to be, but you will be going to Dorne at the month's end with Gwenysse and will stay there for roughly a year."

Jon's mouth had dropped open. " _What?_ "

With a serious expression, his father repeated, "You are to go to Dorne at the month's end with Gwenysse. You will stay there about a year, Gwenysse slightly longer. I admit it is odd, but you will be treated well at Dorne – much better than at the Wall." He shook his head in amazement. "Whether it was Ashara's idea or Prince Doran's…I couldn't believe my eyes when I read her letter." Jon watched as he bit his lip. He wanted to bite his own to end all the questions swimming in his mind. Dorne? With Gwenysse?

"I will be fostered at Dorne for a year?" Jon said nervously. Father made a face and shook his head. "Not exactly. Fostering…I wouldn't define it as fostering." He picked up a piece of parchment from his table. From the letters Jon glimpsed, he recognised it as a letter from Lady Stark. Father folded it carefully and handed it to him. "Read it," he said, sitting down and reaching for a quill. "Not the first part, the second. Ashara writes about you." Jon glanced at it.

 _…_ _and now I have interesting news for you regarding Jon Snow. Over the last few days, I've spoken to Prince Doran about his son Trystane – the boy is lonely and craves companionship. Gwenysse is too young to be his companion (all our sons are too young to befriend him) and even with Robb, Lyarra and Arya closest to Trystane in age, it will be inconvenient for them to come south to Dorne. Due to Gwenysse's tender age, it'll be good for her to have a familiar face with her for a few months or so and I thought of Jon._

 _I know you love Jon and fear he will not be accepted in the south due to his status as your natural son, but in Dorne, natural sons and daughters are treated with respect and love like trueborn children. Gwenysse will have friends her age in Prince Oberyn's own children and I believe that Trystane will view Jon as a good friend. I yearn to return to Winterfell; I have stayed here much longer than I thought. However, if you agree to have Gwenysse fostered at the Water Gardens or Sunspear and Jon to be Trystane's companion for about a year, I think I'll remain at Dorne till they arrive. No doubt by then, Edric will be wedding Matysse. I hope I'll be home soon. If Jon feels uncomfortable in Dorne, he can return home anytime he wishes as his stay in Dorne will have nothing to do with this alliance Prince Doran is eager to have between our houses._

 _I hope to hear from you soon Ned._

 _Ashara._

Jon placed the letter back. "I don't know what to say," he said finally. "Going to Dorne…I…I don't know…"

Father nodded. "I was surprised too." He sighed and looked at him. "Truthfully, do you wish to go to Dorne?" He stared at him intently, concern in his eyes. It was as if he didn't want him to go…

"Dorne does sound fascinating," said Jon tentatively. "Why is Gwenysse going to Dorne at such a young age?"

"I don't like parting with your brothers and sisters," Father admitted, "nor the idea of parting with you. You are of my blood after all. However, it seems Ashara wants one of our children to be more familiar with her Dornish roots and as we have so many, I suppose one wouldn't hurt. Besides, it'll be good for Gwenysse to know her maternal family." It sounded like he spoke more to himself than to Jon, who waited patiently for more information. "You said you wanted to be knighted didn't you?" Father said suddenly.

Jon nodded. "Bastards can be knighted too."

"Don't call yourself a bastard Jon. You're of my blood. Remember that." Father drummed his fingers against his table thoughtfully. "I suppose you can squire for Prince Oberyn and return a knight…"

"Am I not too old to be a squire?"

"Not at all. No one is too old to be a squire. I am certain Prince Oberyn will be impressed with your skills with the sword." He smiled at Jon. "Mayhaps you will learn a trick or two from the Red Viper himself. I heard he's good with the sword even though his primary weapon is the spear. If you do decide to go, take care of Gwenysse will you?"

"Of course Father. I'd love to go to Dorne, but I'd like to think about it too. Talk to Robb about it maybe."

Father nodded. "Good. Don't make a hasty decision you will soon regret. I will need an answer soon though, by the end of the week perhaps. Talk to Robb. Talk to Lyarra. Talk to your siblings and friends. I know Arya and Jon will want you to stay, but the ultimate decision is yours."

* * *

" _WHAT?_ "

 _Clang_. Needle fell to the ground as Arya stared at Jon, her eyes and mouth as wide as dishes. Jon shifted uncomfortably. He wished he leave Winterfell early in the morning when his siblings were still asleep. He hated farewell scenes – even his own. He bent down, picked up Needle and offered it to her. Arya didn't take it from him. Instead, she crossed her arms.

"You want to run away to Dorne," Arya said flatly.

"It's not running away!" Jon protested. "It was an offer! If you're presented the choice to stay at Dorne for a year, wouldn't you take it?"

" _A YEAR?_ "

Jon groaned. "It wouldn't be that long Arya! I'll be back before you can blink! I promise I won't stay longer than a year! I might even come back earlier! In fact, I probably will. I won't be used to the Dornish heat."

Arya frowned. "Why are you going to Dorne?" she complained. She brightened up. "Can I come too?"

"I'm sorry Arya. I'll be going with Gwenysse."

"Gwenysse? Gwenysse is a child! Why does Father want Gwenysse to go Dorne and not me or Arthur, Lyarra, Robb or even Rickon!" Arya grabbed her sword in a huff and slashed off a practice dummy's head. Jon discreetly stepped back. Arya glared at the next practice dummy ferociously.

"It won't be forever," Jon tried to say again. He loved Arya the most of his litter of siblings, but by the gods, why wouldn't she listen to reason? He had no desire to be one of the knights in the southron songs girls like Melia Tully idolised, but he needed to secure his future and knighthood was a better option than joining the Night's Watch. Knights were a rare sight in the North – perhaps his future at Winterfell would be the next master-at-arms once Ser Rodrik grew old, or maybe he would be Robb's captain of the household guards.

"Everyone is leaving!" said Arya, stabbing the practice dummy in the chest. "I thought you would stay here forever. First Bran left, Domeric and Lyarra will be leaving for the Dreadfort in a few days and now you and Gwenysse! Who will go next? Will Robb be going south with Theon to marry his betrothed? Maybe it will be Dany going to Dorne as well. All I'll have for company here will be Arthur and Rickon." She huffed.

"And Nymeria?" Jon jested. Arya glared at him. "You said you planned to join the Night's Watch but you didn't," she said hopefully.

"That was _different_ , Arya."

Arya sighed and rolled her eyes. "Oh very well," she muttered, yanking Needle from the practice dummy's chest. "Go to Dorne if you must. Enjoy your year there in the hot Dornish heat. I'll still be here when you come back. Hopefully."

"I'll come and spar with you tonight," Jon promised.

"You don't have to," said Arya, heading towards the weapon shed behind the row of practice dummies, a couple headless or missing a limb here or there and some extremely battered. "I have another dancing lesson tonight." Jon blinked in puzzlement. _Another_ dancing lesson? The only dance Jon knew Arya enjoyed was an afternoon of heated sparring.

Catching sight of his confusion, Arya rolled her eyes again. "Water dancing you stupid head," she informed him flatly. "Syrio has been teaching me water dancing for months. How on earth did you forget?"

Jon did not answer. Arya would not understand.

* * *

"You are so fortunate," said Dany wistfully. "Going to Dorne for a year! What a spot of luck! Lord Stark is so generous to you." Jon nodded. It was late afternoon and they were alone in the godswood, Dany sitting on a bed of moss and Jon next to her, staring into the small pool of pitch black water. "You have no relations in Dorne yet you were invited to stay there for a year," Daenerys continued. "Such a rare opportunity indeed! I doubt many Starks ventured south to Dorne and then there is you who will spend a whole year in Dorne! A whole year!" She hesitated and bit her lip tentatively.

"What is it?" asked Jon, noticing at once.

"My mother is Dornish," Dany said quietly. "My father Lord Dayne is dead, but what of my mother? She will still be in Dorne would she not? She gave me up as a babe – would she not want to know about me now?"

"I wish you can come with me to Dorne. I'm as eager to discover my mother as you are to find yours. When I was younger, I heard rumours that my mother was a Dornish lady like yours. Some of the servants even said that my mother is our old nurse Wylla! Impossible of course."

Dany looked at him curiously. "Why would it be impossible? She had dark eyes like yours. She even had dark hair."

"She returned to Starfall when Edric was born."

"Perhaps she left because she knew you were in good hands? If Wylla is your mother, at least you remember her holding and feeding you." She sounded bitter. Jon reached out and squeezed her hand. "We will never know," he murmured. "It was only a rumour. Maybe your mother is a highborn lady of a noble house who was forced to give you away? That can happen."

Dany laughed. "It sounds like a tale Old Nan told us girls when we were still in the nursery!" She looked thoughtful. "It is possible, isn't it? Oh, imagine if the old gods had made us trueborn children instead of bastards!"

Jon leant against the weirwood tree as silence descended into the godswood. Instead of Jon Snow, he would be Jon Stark, the eldest son of Lord and Lady Stark and heir to Winterfell. He would still train with Robb and Theon, the latter might not mock him as much, and he would wed a highborn maiden from a great house rather than a Northern lord's bastard or a wealthy merchant's daughter. _Would I have been happier?_ Jon wondered. Lord and Lady Stark both treated him well as if he was their trueborn child; his siblings loved him as if he was their brother of the full blood rather than half; and if he fell in love with say the cook's daughter, there would surely be no objection in the match. He glanced at Daenerys, whose eyes were still closed. Would Father consent to the idea of marriage between him and Dany? He was Lord Stark's bastard and she was the late Lord Dayne's. Dany was technically Lord Stark's niece through marriage, but he and Daenerys had no blood connection. It was an ideal match.

"What are you thinking?" said Dany, opening an eye lazily. "It must be a very happy thought if you're smiling like that."

Jon chuckled. "I was thinking of you."

"Me?" Now both her eyes were open as she gave him an inquisitive look. "Now what could it possibly be?"

 _Marriage_. "What were you thinking about?"

"If I tell you, will you tell me what made Jon Snow smile?"

"Very well."

Daenerys straightened up and said almost dreamily. "I was my father's eldest child and heir to Starfall. Ravens would fly through the window of the maester's tower almost every day, each carrying a letter from a neighbouring lord or lady who wanted his or her son married to me. Foolish don't you think? It's just" – she sighed – "everywhere I walk, from the library to the broken tower, I always hear the servants talk about marriages, whether it was Lord Stark's marriage to Lady Stark, Lyarra's betrothal to Domeric, Robb's engagement to Lyanna Baratheon…I sometimes wish it was me they whisper about." Her smile faded, "but I won't be happy in Starfall," she confessed. "I don't think I'd be. Winterfell has a wonderful, happy atmosphere I think no other keep or castle will have."

Jon nodded in agreement. "Winterfell is special," he affirmed.

"Now you must tell me what you're thinking." Dany brushed scattered beads of dirt from the skirt of her blue gown trimmed with grey fur.

"If I was the heir of Winterfell," said Jon promptly. "It's not much different to what it is now but Theon would not be so rude to me and I wouldn't have to hide myself away when visiting lords come. It's a thought I had when I was a boy, but I stopped thinking about it when…"

"When?" encouraged Dany.

"Robb said I'd never be the Lord of Winterfell. We were both boys and we had started our sparring sessions. We pretended we were the heroes we heard about from Old Nan's stories, and I…I shouted I was the Lord of Winterfell."

"That was the day you first started moping," Daenerys recalled. "I mean when you first began keeping to yourself," she said hastily as Jon raised an eyebrow. "I remembered that because earlier that day, you had promised you would explore the broken tower with me. I waited for you but you never showed up. Robb said that you'd gone to try and hack off some of the practice dummies' heads. I don't think you actually beheaded any of them successfully, though one was missing an arm and a hand."

"You remembered that?" said Jon, impressed.

Dany blushed. "It was an amusing sight – how could I forget it? Oh, and when Arya was old enough to hold a practice sword, she tried the same thing."

Jon burst out laughing. "That I remember! Waymar Royce was convinced that Domeric taught it to Arya deliberately and accused him of drowning the pup he was given as a name day gift!"

"Yes! It was all confusion that day and it turned out Waymar's pup accidently drowned when it fell into the well! And during the whole time Arya was bawling and stamping her feet because no one would play with her!"

Jon smiled. "There was never a dull moment in our childhood."

"If you ask Arya, she would say Septa Mordane's sewing sessions. She is much more well-behaved now, probably thanks to those dancing lessons of hers. Septa Mordane had not scolded her in three whole days!"

"I wish you can come with me to Dorne," Jon said again. "Lord Edric Dayne is your half-brother – you have the right to see him. Together we could start finding who your mother is. Maybe by the year's end we will find her, or at least know a little about her. I suppose we can start by asking Lady Stark when we see her, or maybe…maybe we can question Starfall's household?"

"No one will answer a bastard's questions."

Jon's eyes shone with excitement. "We don't have to exactly _ask_ , Daenerys. We can visit Starfall and your mere presence will get the servants talking. Surely as a babe, your mother would've taken you to Starfall so you could be acknowledged by Lord Dayne as his child! The servants there must remember that! All we have to do is listen to what they say amongst themselves."

"That is brilliant Jon! Do you think my uncle will allow me to accompany you and Gwenysse to Dorne?"

"I'll ask him! I'll ask him right now!" Before Dany could say another word, Jon squeezed her hand for the final time and rushed out from Winterfell's godswood, hoping Father was still in his solar. He would hate to disturb his father in one of his meetings with Maester Luwin or the steward…

Thankfully, when Jon knocked on Lord Stark's door, he heard him call, "Come in." Jon opened the door and entered. Neither the maester or the steward were in sight. Father gestured for him to sit. "I did not expect to see you back here for at least a few hours Jon. How can I help you?"

"I…I want to ask a favour," said Jon rapidly. Lord Stark raised an eyebrow. "It's unlike me," said Jon hastily. "I know, but it…it's important."

"I see," said Lord Stark simply. "What is it?"

"Can…can Daenerys come with me and Gwenysse to Dorne?" To Jon's distress, Lord Stark remained silent. "I've been talking to her," Jon went on, "and as Dany's birth mother is probably Dornish like her mother, it will benefit her to go there – more beneficial to her than me actually."

"When Daenerys was brought to Winterfell, Lord Dayne made it clear that her birth mother will have no connections to her," said Lord Stark, his tone coated in an edge of iciness. "He too seemed to indicate that once Daenerys was in our care, he wanted nothing to do with her. Jon, I know you want Dany happy, but are you sure taking Daenerys to Dorne is wise?"

"Why would it not, Lord Stark? Dany has Dornish heritage and it is her right to visit Dorne and discover more about her family."

"You are kind," said Father gently, "but Dany's family is here. In Dorne, fathers take in their bastards but Lord Dayne chose not to. It shows character, Jon. Dany would've been miserable if she remained under his roof. What if instead of giving her relief in Dorne, you give her pain? What if Dany isn't ready for the truth? It'll hurt her more than anything. Sometimes ignorance is bliss. There will always be some secrets that are better hidden than told. You'll understand when you grow older Jon. Soon you'll be keeping secrets from Robb."

"I'll never!" said Jon hotly. Father gave him a dry smile. "Are you certain about that? Perhaps you are keeping secrets from him now."

"Dany will be happier knowing the truth," Jon insisted.

Father studied him for a moment. "It seems more like you who want to know the truth," he remarked. "I always considered Daenerys mine own daughter like I think Domeric mine son. Sometimes being a natural son or daughter is hard and even if you do know both your parents, you will still be unsatisfied. What is it you truly want Jon? To bear the Stark name? The truth about your mother? A keep of your own once you are deemed old enough?"

Jon flushed. "I'm here to talk about _Dany_."

"If she goes to Dorne, she will break. Is that what you want, Jon? Do you really want Dany broken?"

"Dany is strong! She won't break!"

Father shook his head. "The risk is too great. I know Dany is no fragile flower, but she isn't as cold and hard like…like Lord Bolton. Think about it Jon. If you are still in favour of taking Daenerys to Dorne, tell me tomorrow after supper and I'll consider it before writing to Ashara. I trust you'll make the right decision."

* * *

 **I've decided to try writing another Jon chapter. I know it's pretty similar to the last Jon chapter, but honestly, he isn't one of my favourite characters book-wise or TV show-wise...speaking of the TV show, I'm not particularly happy with what they did with Dorne. Oberyn Martell was brilliant, but the Sand Snakes? I found them pretty awful in season 5. Oh, Robert in this story is still fat. Probably not as fat as he was in the books, but still fat.**


	48. Arya II

The day had finally come. The sun slipped slowly over the mountains towards its golden throne as Arya sleepily left her messy room. She muffled an upcoming yawn with her hand as she opened the door and stepped outside the warm keep into the chilly courtyard. Unsurprisingly, all her elder siblings, Daenerys, Theon and Domeric were already there, Domeric helping Jon saddle his chestnut horse and Lyarra and Dany holding his bags.

"There you are," said Robb, noticing her at once. "Lyarra was about to go and fetch you." Theon moved away and Arya glimpsed Jon giving her a small and sad smile. Arya wanted to run up and hug him; she didn't.

The general murmur ceased as Jon made his way towards her. "I tried looking for you last night," he said quietly. "You weren't in your room or in the training yard. Will I be leaving for Dorne knowing you are still mad at me Arya?"

"It's hard to be mad at you," Arya mumbled. Ghost crept up to her and licked her hand. Apart from Nymeria, Arya liked Ghost the best of the direwolves. Lady was always so…ladylike for a direwolf and Grey Wind preferred to follow Robb everywhere rather than spend more time with his siblings. "Will you write to us all the time?" she said hopefully.

"All the time," Jon promised. "Every single day I am away, I will write and once a week, I'll send all my letters to you. We don't want to tire out all the ravens do we? I'll even save you um, a cup of sand."

"I've never seen sand before."

"You will soon be able to see and hold sand for yourself when I return." Arya nodded, biting her lip. She patted Ghost on the head before she threw herself on Jon's chest, hugging him fiercely. "I'm glad you're not mad at me," said Jon with a relieved chuckle. "I can never be mad at my little sister." Arya pulled away. "Stay safe in Dorne," she said at last. "Don't get bitten by a snake." Theon snickered. Jon and Arya ignored him. "I'll miss you," Arya whispered.

"I will too," Jon whispered back. He stepped back and was whisked into a hug by Lyarra. Domeric patted Jon on the shoulder. "I'll miss sparring with you," Arya heard Domeric say. "The Dornish princes are lucky to have you."

"Don't eat all the food today," Daenerys warned. "It'll have to last at least until you're in the Riverlands unless you wish to eat frogs in the Neck." Everyone there laughed. A vision of Jon attempting to eat a cooked frog appeared in Arya's mind. Arya's grin widened.

"The crannogmen will be happy to offer hospitality," said Father, appearing in front of the keep's door. He walked up to them. Arya noticed his Stark grey eyes were rimmed with shadows. _He must have had a restless night_ , she thought as she watched Father murmur softly to Jon. _Poor Father_. Arya shifted closer to them. "I have spoken to Lord Reed," Father was saying quietly. "He is more than happy to have you under his roof for a day or two for a respite. I know the general view of crannogmen, but Lord Reed is a good friend of mine and it will be wise for you to have a day of rest before continuing your journey in the Riverlands."

Jon nodded. "I will Father," he promised. "Will there be anything you wish for me to convene to Lord Reed on your behalf?"

Father shook his head. "Give him my thanks. He'll understand."

"I will Father."

"Show those Dornishmen what we Northerners are made of," spoke Robb. "Go and prove we Northerners are strong."

"I heard that Dorne has excellent brothels," said Theon slyly. "Show them you Northerners aren't all icy and stiff inside eh? Besides, if you happen to plant your seed in any of those Dornish whores, you shouldn't feel too bad. He or she'll be a Sand like Daenerys here, not a Snow like you." Arya wanted to slap him. Jon was her brother and as much Stark as she was. Father shot Theon a sharp and frosty look. Taken back, Theon fell silent.

"Tell us everything," said Lyarra, handing Jon one of his bags. "Don't leave any detail out. I'll be living here all my life – I'll be thrilled to read about your time in Dorne. It'll certainly be more interesting than what the maesters wrote about the hot and sandy Dorne in those volumes in the library."

"Take care what you eat," advised Father. "Some dishes may not look spicy or hot, but they most likely are. The household guards are in the stables and will be meeting you shortly. They'll stay with you until you settle."

"What about Gwenysse?" asked Lyarra. Arya berated herself for not realising that Gwenysse was not present.

"Gwenysse will be leaving in the afternoon," Father replied. "Your mother and I agreed that she and Jon will be travelling to Dorne separately until they meet up at Greywater Watch. That brings me to the new plan." Arya looked up at him with astonishment. Father rarely changed his plans. "I'll be accompanying Gwenysse a little in her journey," he explained. "Her trip in the North will be slightly longer as she is still young and requires more time to rest."

"Domeric and I will be leaving for the Dreadfort tomorrow…" said Lyarra with an uncertain frown. Father gave her a fond smile. "Robb will send the two of you off," he said, turning and nodding at Robb. "Lord Bolton will send me – or Robb – a raven when the two of you arrive at the Dreadfort."

"I will keep her safe," vowed Domeric, squeezing Lyarra's hand. For once, Arya didn't roll her eyes. She liked Domeric and was pleased to have him as a brother once he marries Lyarra, but he was like a southron knight from the soppy stories and songs Lyarra and Dany used to sing and tell. Ugh. Arya shivered. She'd heard awful tales about the Dreadfort – it was courageous of Lyarra to spend a couple of years there without a familiar face except Domeric. Neither stupid Jeyne Poole or Beth Cassel were willing to accompany Lyarra there.

Utter cowards.

"I know you will," said Father, offering Domeric an appreciative smile. "I think you one of my sons already – one day you will in truth be my good-son. That is a day I am looking forward to."

"As am I Lord Stark," answered Domeric.

"What must I do Father?" said Robb worriedly.

"You'll do a fine job ruling Winterfell in Father's stead Robb," said Jon, smiling at Robb. "If I can last a year in Dorne, you can take care of Northern matters for a few weeks or so. Maybe even less than a few weeks."

"Will Mother be coming home soon?" said Lyarra hopefully.

Father shook his head. "Not anytime soon," he answered, biting his lip. "She'll want to ensure Gwenysse settles in the Water Gardens, attend her nephew Edric Dayne's wedding…she will return when everything is settled."

"Oh." Lyarra sounded disappointed. Arya stared at her feet. "Does it mean that Septa Mordane is in charge of us all?" she said suddenly, alarmed at the prospect of the hawk-eyed septa looming over her during her dancing lessons. It seemed Father had not told her that her dancing lessons were taught by a Braavosi water dancer; Septa Mordane was under the impression that she was finally on the way in becoming a 'true lady' beginning with dancing lessons and hopefully (in Septa Mordane's mind) ending with pristine sewing. Arya inwardly snorted. She would sew as well as Lyarra the day the Others were at Winterfell's doorstep.

"Perhaps I can stay and take care of Arya, Arthur and Rickon while you're with Gwenysse?" suggested Lyarra.

Father shook his head again and gave her a gentle smile. "Lord Bolton will not be pleased if you show up months later after the agreed date. I will speak to you later, Lyarra. This is Jon's time."

"Write to me when you arrive at Greywater Watch," called Arya as Jon climbed onto his horse. "I expect your first letter soon!"

"Go for an early breakfast now if you will," Father told her, her siblings, Theon, Domeric and Dany, "or return to bed. It is up to you. I'd like a moment alone with Jon before he leaves with a few household guards."

"Come," said Robb, placing a hand on Arya's shoulder. "Let us give Father and Jon some time alone. We'll see Jon again…soon."

* * *

Syrio clicked his teeth together for the second time that hour as he effortlessly knocked the wooden sword from Arya's hand. "You are a dead girl. You have not been seeing again, dead girl."

Arya scowled. "Jon just left for Dorne!" Her Braavosi water dancer Syrio Forel, tutted. He was a slight man with a bald head and a great beak of a nose. "What if this was a war, dead girl, and your brother died? Would you fight without seeing? You would be long dead, dead girl."

"Jon is my favourite brother! It hurts…"

"Every hurt is a lesson, dead girl, and every lesson makes you better. Now, are you ready?" He tossed a wooden blade in the air and Arya caught it clumsily, her dancing master clicking his teeth again disapprovingly. "You were not seeing or watching," he remarked. "How can you dance a bravo's dance when your mind is in the clouds? The water dance is swift and sudden." Without warning, he struck Arya high in the breast before she could defend herself.

With a huff, Arya concentrated and delivered a good blow which earnt her an approving nod. "Left!" he called, dancing this way and that as he slashed his own wooden sword at her. It _clacked_ as Arya's blade met his. "Right!" Syrio sang. "Left, right, right! Lunge!"

Arya immediately sidestepped and with a strong swipe, knocked Syrio's blade from his hand.

 _Almost_.

Arya bit in a curse she learnt from Theon and narrowly dodged a high stroke from him. _Clack, clack_. His sword almost slammed into her breast as her wooden blade darted out to parry it. The training chamber whirled around her as she and Syrio danced to the sound of the _clacking_ of their blades until the fatal droplet of sweat slipped from her eyelash and blurred her eye. Arya blinked…and received a stinging blow in the shoulder. "Ow!" she cried.

Syrio stepped back. "You are a dead girl again."

"I'm a dead girl every day."

"Yet you rise again with more strength and knowledge than before." Syrio had placed his wooden sword back in the chest of wooden swords. Arya followed suit and dropped hers in. She wiped away the torrent of sweat on her forehead with a cloth and sat down on one of the few chairs left there when Father had the spare room transformed into a training room for her. Mother objected to the proposal of Arya learning water dancing in her bedchamber; it was inappropriate, she had said, scandalous in the south and the north apparently. As the boys took up most of the training yard, Father had changed one of the many large spare rooms into a training room for her.

"How goes catching cats, girl?" inquired Syrio, sitting down beside her.

"There are not many cats here in Winterfell," replied Arya.

"You do not look with your eyes, girl. How can you catch cats if you don't look for them? How many cats have you seen?"

"Three," Arya counted. "Gage's scruffy cat, Beth Cassel's cat and Jeyne Poole's kitten." She scowled. Jeyne's kitten was white with stripes of yellow, the colour of butter, who seemed to be as nasty as her owner. Jeyne was given the kitten a few months ago as a name day gift by her father Vayon and she named her Jonquil, no doubt after some character in a southron song.

"Only three, girl?" To her surprise, Syrio threw back his head and chuckled. "I am astonished, girl. You have not been seeing. There are certainly more cats here in Winterfell than three!" He stood up and glanced out the window. "Come here," he said to Arya. "Look out this window and tell me how many cats you see. You'll catch another cat for me tonight."

"Tonight?"

"No time like the present, girl. Time slips through our fingers like sand." _More like snow_. "How many cats can you see girl?"

Arya stared out the window. Robb and Domeric were sparring again. It looked more empty without Jon. Theon was on the sidelines, shouting words that could be either encouragement or something else. She continued staring and noticed a cat slinking in the shadows near the guest house. Gage the cooks' cat. She highly doubted there was only one cat in the courtyard. A few minutes passed and Arya could not find another cat. "One," she said, giving up.

"Only one, girl? You still are not seeing today."

Arya huffed. "I see one cat! How do you see more?"

"Over there, there and there. One is creeping up to your brother while one of the others is climbing the wall." Arya squinted at the many shadows. She turned to Syrio and frowned. "There are no cats there!"

Syrio smiled. "Girl, do you know how I was chosen to be the First Sword to the Sealord of Braavos?"

"I only see one cat there!"

"Hear me. It was seeing, the true seeing." Arya chewed on her lip. She thought Syrio was selected because he was the finest swordsman in Braavos. "The ships of Braavos sail as far as the winds blow, to the most strange and wonderful of the known lands," Syrio recounted, "and when they return, their captains fetch queer animals for the Sealord's exotic menagerie. You should have seen all the unusual creatures, dear girl. Such beasts you've never seen: striped horses, great spotted animals with necks as long as stilts, odd hairy mouse-pigs as big as cows, stinging manticores, tigers that carry their cubs in pouches, terrible walking lizards with scythes for claws…Syrio Forel had seen them all.

"On the day I speak of, the last First Sword had died and the Sealord had sent for me. Many swift, strong and fast Braavosi swordsmen had come to him, all of them – even the finest few – were sent away. Why? They didn't know why. When I came into the Sealord's presence, he was seated on his magnificent chair and on his lap was a fat yellow cat. The Sealord informed me that one of his captains had brought this beast to him from an island beyond the sunrise. 'Have you ever seen her like?' he asked of me. I looked at the cat and replied, 'Each night in the alleys of Braavos I see a thousand like him,' and the Sealord laughed. An hour later that very day, I was named the First Sword."

"I don't understand," said Arya, her face contorting into another frown.

"The cat was an ordinary cat, no more," said Syrio simply. "All the bravos that come before me expected a glorious creature so that is what they saw. How large it was, they said. It was no larger than any other cat, only fat from indolence, for the Sealord fed it from his own table. What curious ears, they said. Its ears were chewed away in kitten fights. It was a plain tomcat, yet the Sealord said 'her', and that was what the others saw. Do you understand, girl?"

Arya pondered on his story. "You saw what was there," she said finally.

"Just so. All you need is to open your eyes. The heart clearly lies and the head plays cruel tricks, but the eyes always see true. Look with your eyes, girl. Do not forget that. Look with your eyes, hear with your ears, taste with your mouth and smell with your nose. Feel with your skin. _Then_ you think."

Arya grinned. "Just so. You lied to me about the cats!"

"You saw the truth – one cat."

"Why did you lie to me?"

"You have not been seeing all afternoon, girl. You were believing the lies your heart told you. You needed to begin seeing."

"Don't you have brothers or sisters, Syrio? Surely you miss them!"

Syrio considered it for a moment. "Syrio has a good number of brothers and sisters," he said at last, "but it is also an honour to be in the serve of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell."

"You were the First Sword of Braavos before you came here!"

"Now there is a new First Sword to the Sealord. Girl, you had often spoken of leaving Winterfell and seeing the world. What do titles matter? First Sword…now the Lady Arya Stark's water dancing instructor."

"I am not the Lady Arya Stark!"

Syrio cocked his head. "You were born a lady of the House Stark and you were named Arya, hence you _are_ the Lady Arya Stark." He paused. "Girl, we are done with dancing for the day. Go and rest, girl. Catch cats if you can. I will not expect you here tomorrow."

* * *

For the second time in two days, Arya dragged herself from her warm bed to the courtyard to bid farewell to another sibling. She didn't want them to leave so soon. First Jon, then Father and Gwenysse, now Lyarra and Domeric, whom Arya had already considered a brother.

The day started off the same: cloudy, gloomy, silent. Arya crept from her room to the courtyard, grains of sleep still trapped in her tired eyes. As she suppressed a yawn, she noticed a fresh bruise blossoming on her arm. Another one. She left the Great Keep and skidded to a halt. Only Domeric and Lyarra were there. _Have I come too early?_ Arya wondered. She hovered uncertainly on the doorstep as she watched them saddle their horses quietly.

"Are you certain about this?" Arya heard Domeric inquire. Lyarra nodded and glanced around. "They already lost Jon, Gwenysse and Father," she answered. "It will be cruel for them to bid us goodbye."

"Would it not hurt them more when they realise we are gone?"

"We said our farewells yesterday."

"Do you really want to do this Lyarra? These are your brothers and sisters we are talking about. And Daenerys who you think as a sister. They will be unhappy when they find out."

"By then we'd be long gone. I cannot bear saying goodbye to them Domeric. It is too much. I just…just cannot."

"Is it because your father is not here as well?"

"I wish…I wish he and Gwenysse could wait another day. I also hoped that my mother would be here too. I thought when we leave for the Dreadfort, both of my parents would be here. As Mother is still in Dorne and Father away…I think that it would be best if we just go without a fuss."

"Your father and mother still love you."

Lyarra didn't answer. She turned and noticed Arya. "You woke up early," she remarked with a smile. Arya stared at her. "Where's Robb and the others?" Arya asked. "I thought we were all going to be here…to send you off like we did to Jon, Father and Gwenysse." When Gwenysse left, Arya didn't feel as sad as she was in the morning when Jon departed. Of course she would miss her dear little sister, but Gwenysse spent more time with Arthur than her.

Lyarra shook her head sadly. "I already said my goodbyes yesterday Arya. You do not remember it?"

Arya thought for a moment. Before supper, Lyarra _did_ spend two hours with her in the armoury looking and holding the weapons there. She usually wasn't as interested in weaponry…"I didn't know," said Arya, a lump forming in her throat. She felt incredibly foolish. Lyarra laughed softly. "I will miss you," she murmured, drawing Arya into a hug. "I really will."

"I will too." The words scrambled from Arya's mouth. "Can you wait a minute, please?" Domeric walked up to them and squeezed Lyarra's hand. "We will wait for you," he promised. Arya ran to the armoury as fast as she can, almost tripping over her own feet. She pushed open the heavy armoury door and her eyes darted around swiftly. Her heart pounded as she panicked slightly. Oh where was it? She bit her lip worriedly. There! She grabbed the spotted object and raced back to the courtyard where to her delight, Domeric and Lyarra were still waiting.

"Here." Arya handed the dagger to Lyarra. It was small and of Valyrian steel. It looked quite similar to Ice but much, much more little. "You said you liked it," she explained. "Take it…and remember us."

* * *

 **There will definitely be future Theon and Lyarra POVs, maybe a Domeric one too. I planned for their to be conflict, but as Part 2 is much longer than I originally anticipated, the planned conflict will be slightly delayed, which brings me to a question: as Part 2 is supposed to finish in 3 chapters with a three year time gap, would you prefer me to delay Part 3 even further to add Jon's travel to Dorne or write that in a separate story? I'm perfectly happy writing a mini spinoff of Jon's time in Dorne.  
**

 **Here are the descriptions of the Stark children:**

 **Robb - stocky build, purple eyes, thick dark hair**

 **Lyarra - purple eyes, long dark hair**

 **Arya - long face, grey eyes, brown hair**

 **Bran - dark blue eyes, thick dark hair**

 **Gwenysse - grey eyes, long dark hair**

 **Arthur - purple eyes, brown hair**

 **Rickon - brown eyes, thick dark hair**


	49. Bran

Grand Maester Pycelle had fallen asleep again. When it'd first happened, Bran found it amusing. Now? It was more tiresome.

Ormund prodded Bran with his quill. "Let's go," he whispered excitedly. "We can still go and investigate secret passages! It is still early."

Bran frowned. He had never escaped the classroom as Arya had done a good number of times in Winterfell. "We can go and investigate in the late afternoon," he murmured, glancing at the snoozing grand maester uneasily. "We're supposed to be here for another hour at least. We cannot go sneaking around the castle and missing our lessons…"

The prince rolled his eyes. "Learning what? We've been sitting here for hours – doing what? Watching the old goat sleep."

A snicker slipped from Bran's lips. "Old goat?"

"I heard Lord Tyrion Lannister call him that once." Ormund grinned. He swept a few strands of coal black hair from in front of his eyes behind his ear as his blue eyes sparkled. "It suits him very well does it not? The old goat!"

"The old goat," Bran echoed with a smile. "Perhaps we should ask the king to assign us a new instructor? It will be horrible if we fall behind in our lessons. My father will be disappointed in me if he hears I am not learning."

"My father would not particularly care."

"Ormund!" Bran stopped as he heard a particularly loud snore from the grand maester. "Your father will always be proud of you."

"If I sleep with a dozen wenches from the tavern or hunt down a boar he will." The prince sounded bitter. "At times I wonder if I will always be in my brother's shadow. Then again, Orys _does_ contemplate if he will ever leave our father's big footsteps in the future." Bran never thought of it that way. He heard many stories about jealous second sons who rose in uprisings against their elder brothers. He knew he certainly wouldn't fight against Robb.

"Why are you talking?" Grand Maester Pycelle had woken up. He coughed and frowned. Mumbling to himself, he stood up and shuffled towards them, stroking his long, snowy beard. The two dozen heavy chains that stretched from his neck to breast chinked softly as he hobbled slowly. He squinted at the map in front of Bran and tutted under his breath. "Empty eh, Lord Brandon?" he said, shaking his head. "What will His Grace say? He cannot have an unlearned imbecile in his fine court, eh? As a boy of the North, I thought you would at least know all the seats of your lord father's bannermen. Very disappointing Lord Brandon. I had expected much better from you." Turning away from a puzzled Bran, he studied Ormund's map, which was similarly vacant of information.

"You too, my prince?" The old grand maester shook his head again. "The king will not be pleased…not pleased at all. What will your lady mother say? One day my prince, you will have a keep of our own and you must be a learned man to be a good ruler eh? No man will follow a foolish man."

"You fell asleep Grand Maester," said Ormund bluntly. "You fell asleep before you taught us anything."

Grand Maester Pycelle blinked. "You are mistaken my prince! I have told you a number of times to write on the map the names of the noble houses of Westeros below or above their seats!"

"No Grand Maester," said Bran uncomfortably. "You haven't."

The grand maester blinked again. "Eh?"

"You haven't told us," Bran repeated.

"You haven't," Ormund chimed in. Grand Maester Pycelle muttered to himself under his breath before shuffling to the door. Bran and Ormund glanced at each other in confusion.

"Keep working," Grand Maester Pycelle mumbled to them absently. "My lord prince, Lord Brandon, I want to see those maps completed in an hour. I will come back to inspect them at an hour's end." He trundled out without another look or even another cough.

Ormund scowled. "Old goat," he grumbled. "I refuse to be trapped inside this stifling classroom all day! Tonight, I will request a new tutor for us! Brandon, will you be at my side when I demand a new instructor for us?"

 _Brandon?_ Ormund had ceased calling him Brandon about an hour or less after they were introduced to each other. "If you wish me to be my prince," Bran said uncertainly. "I will always be at your side."

"My prince?" Ormund snorted. "When did you begin calling me 'my prince' in moments like this? I thought we are friends, Bran! Do friends call each other 'my prince' and 'Lord Brandon'? I think not." He stood up and stretched. "We can ask Uncle Renly to help us with the maps?" he suggested, "or we can have Edric finish it for us. He cannot refuse us. Oh! We should do that! Once these horrid maps are done, we can go exploring!"

Bran frowned. "We should complete them on our own." He didn't like the idea of forcing Edric Storm to finish their maps at all – it was corrupt, callous and just cruel. An idea struck him. "Why do we not divide it in half?" he proposed. "I will write down the names of the noble houses of the North, the Vale, the Iron Islands, Dragonstone and the Westerlands whilst you jot down those of the Riverlands, the Crownlands, the Stormlands, the Reach and Dorne? When we finish, we can share our answers. We will be done soon!"

"Quite right," said Ormund thoughtfully. "A much better idea than Edric doing our work. You do not want to write the Dornish houses? Your mother is Dornish is she not?" He looked hopefully at him.

"Very well," Bran sighed. "I will write the Dornish houses. If we must complete another map tomorrow, you can write them." He suspected when they enter the schoolroom tomorrow, the ancient grand maester would give them a copy of the same blank map to complete.

"Fair enough," agreed Ormund cheerfully. He picked up his quill again. "Shall we write as fast as we can?" Bran sighed and smiled at his friend. Ormund never had much patience for letters and numbers. In the training yard, Ormund rode a horse as if he was born to; his right hand gripped a sword as well as a man twice his age; his left a spear, the only men better than him were probably all Dornish. Ser Barristan said he had much work to do to be one of the best warriors in all of the Seven Kingdoms – he was on the right track. Bran himself enjoyed learning to fight with a sword, a bow and a spear, though he secretly favoured their lessons in the classroom – even under the tutelage of Grand Maester Pycelle.

Silence settled over the schoolroom as Bran turned his attention to the map in front of him. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the prince twirling his quill, bored. Inwardly shaking his head at his enthusiastic friend, Bran began to write down Westeros's noble houses, beginning with his own house. _House Stark – Winterfell_ , Bran jotted on the map. Slowly he made his way around the North. _House Cerwyn – Castle Cerwyn. House Tallhart – Torrhen's Square. House Dustin – Barrowton. House Flint of Flint's Finger – Flint's Finger_ …It was not long before he triumphantly wrote _House Reed – Greywater Watch_ , the last Northern house. He quickly turned his attention to the Vale. He was less familiar with the Vale houses than those of the North, but thankfully Maester Luwin had revised them with him before he left for King's Landing.

"Where's your wolf?"

Bran looked up. One glance at Ormund's map was all Bran needed to know his heart wasn't into the task. "He is in my room," he answered. It was tremendously kind of Princess Lyanna to deliver his direwolf to him, but he wondered if it was a wise decision. At Winterfell, the direwolves were granted freedom to wander throughout its halls; at King's Landing, Bran was obliged to keep his wolf either in his room or in the kennels like…like an ordinary dog.

"You still have not named him yet?"

Bran shook his head. "I still haven't thought of the perfect name yet." At first it struck him to name his wolf after his aunt Lyanna…but then Robb told him that his pup was male. Besides, there were many Northerners, ships and even a royal princess named after his famous aunt.

"It'll come to you," said Ormund encouragingly.

"Have you finished the Crownlands yet?"

Ormund rolled his eyes. "Really Bran? Must you always return to class work? I see you've finished the North."

"We had an agreement," Bran reminded him.

"I know, I know. We had an agreement. I will begin now," Ormund added as he caught sight of Bran's frown. Bran watched him scrawl down _House Baratheon of Storm's End – Storm's End_ and _House Baratheon of King's Landing (royal house) – King's Landing._ "At least write down Houses Tyrell and Tully," Bran sighed. As if he was being forced to skin a dead stag, Ormund groaned and reluctantly marked them down on the map.

This time physically shaking his head, Bran returned to his own map. He soon finished the Vale houses and his quill lingered uneasily over the Iron Islands. He wished he'd paid more attention when Maester Luwin told him about the houses Theon would eventually rule over.

"The Ironborn have many cadet branches," Maester Luwin once said. He was informing Robb, Jon, Lyarra and Daenerys when they were younger. Bran himself had wondered into the Winterfell schoolroom and overheard him. "Are they like trees?" he had asked. His siblings and Dany had laughed.

The patient Maester Luwin had shook his head and said gently. "Not trees, my dear boy. Branches of offspring more like."

"Offspring?"

"Children, Bran. You and your sisters and brothers are Lord and Lady Stark's offspring. One day when you have sons and daughters of your own, they will be your offspring and your lord father's descendants."

"What are cadet branches?"

"All your Stark cousins are from cadet branches Bran; descendants of second and younger sons of the previous Lords of Winterfell." Maester Luwin had then pointed to the sigil of House Karstark. "Do you know which house that is?"

"House Karstark!"

"Very good Bran. House Karstark's founder, Lord Karlon, was a Stark. For his valour, he was granted many lands and he built a castle called Karl's Hold, which we now know as Karhold. As the castle's name changed, as did the name of Lord Karlon's descendants. The Starks of Karl's Hold became the Karstarks of Karhold. One day you will have a keep and serve Robb as a loyal brother and bannerman. You will be the founder of a cadet branch too."

"Staring at the Iron Islands won't do you any good." Bran blinked. He was still in King's Landing, not Winterfell. He was nine, not a little boy of five. Nostalgia jabbed his heart. He wanted to go home…

"What is it?" said Ormund, concerned.

Bran shook his head. "Nothing. I…I am a little tired, that is all. Last night I had trouble sleeping – my wolf was whimpering and whining again."

"You should let him out for a walk."

"Direwolves are not dogs, Ormund. I cannot put a leash on him and take him out for a walk. Direwolves are not used to being restrained or cooped up. I don't know why Robb asked your sister to deliver my wolf to me. It was so kind of both of them, but I think my wolf is more miserable here than in Winterfell."

Ormund looked thoughtful. "Let us go to the kingswood," he suggested. "Your wolf can run around there and we can keep an eye out on him. It is still early and we can stay there for a few hours! We can take Uncle Brynden with us too!" Bran nodded slowly and bit his lip. What Ormund proposed sounded fun and exciting, but the kingswood? It was not exactly close. Before Bran could answer, the door opened and the crown prince walked in.

Bran rose and dipped his head. "Prince Orys." Orys Baratheon nodded back at him. "Lord Brandon." Bran spent more time with Ormund than Orys, but he knew the Baratheon brothers were as different as night and day. To the king's chagrin, his heir, Prince Orys, was more sober and serious like Lord Stannis. He laughed from time to time, but preferred to maintain an impassive expression.

"Why are you here Brother?" asked Ormund. "It is good to see you of course," he added. "A visit from my older brother is always exciting."

"We are going hunting," said Prince Orys flatly. "Tomorrow. All of us – Lyanna, you, Lord Brandon, Edric, Gendry, me – will be accompanying Father and Mother on a hunt. I thought to let you know."

Bran felt ill. A hunt? He was rarely allowed to hunt in Winterfell due to his age, but his stomach turned every time he caught sight of the returning hunting party, with nearly every man there carrying a dead animal. "Must we all go, my prince?" said Bran uneasily. "I…I am…"

"Squeamish in the sight of blood?" offered Ormund. Bran nodded. The crown prince was silent. _Did I upset him?_ Bran wondered. "Come with me," Orys finally said. Bran obeyed and followed him out, leaving Ormund alone in the classroom to poke at his map.

"Being afraid of blood is not a sign of cowardice," said Orys solemnly, "but you must overcome that fear my lord."

"I am not exactly afraid, my prince, but the thought of killing innocent beasts for sport…" Bran shuddered.

"I was afraid of hunting too, my lord of Stark. When I was younger, I had often wondered why my father enjoyed the sport to such a great extent. I still wonder that now. Have you hunted before, Lord Brandon?"

"No my prince. Not really. I have once, but we did not actually hunt. It was um, more of a geography lesson." He reddened. "My father never enjoyed hunting as a sport. He said to hunt for the sake of hunting for food, not sport."

The crown prince nodded. "That is understandable," he agreed. "However, you will serve your brother Lord Robb as a bannerman one day, and you will fight for him if it comes to it. You must get used to the sight of blood, Lord Brandon. It will be better to be used to it now than later when you are a man. My father insisted you come with us tomorrow; stay near me if you so wish. I dislike hunting, but I must be there as my father requested it."

"What of Prince Ormund?"

"Ormund will attempt to hunt with Father." Prince Orys almost sounded tired or bored. "He is not afraid of the sight of blood."

"Really my prince?"

Prince Orys was silent. "One day I will be your brother as much as you will be mine," he said at last. "I am only…taking care of you I suppose. As a brother. Look, just stay near the guards. Hunting is a dangerous sport you know."

"I am aware of it my prince."

"Good. I would brush up on my archery if I were you, Lord Brandon. Perhaps it would be an arrow that would save you from being mauled to death by a boar or a stag." Bran shivered at the ominous words. "Be prepared to break your fast at dawn tomorrow," Prince Orys continued. "We will be leaving shortly afterwards, Lord Brandon. Be ready."

* * *

Rosy-fingered dawn smiled at Bran as he drowsily made his way to the Great Hall for breakfast. His wolf was silent at night yet he hardly slept well. It felt like in every hour he would wake and toss and turn before returning to another hour of fitful rest. His vivid nightmares did not help either.

"You looked like you were beaten by a deer," Ormund commented, joining him at a table. Bran glanced around. Servants bustled here and there, carrying food or hunting gear as they attempted to avoid the excited lords and ladies who waited to leave the Red Keep for the hunt. From what he heard, only a select number of courtiers were to accompany the royal party. "I hardly slept," Bran admitted with a yawn as a servant placed a plate full of food in front of him. The smell of freshly buttered bread topped with three generous rashers of bacon sided with two fried sausages sickened him. The hunting tapestries hung on the walls didn't improve his situation either. "I had a dream," Bran said suddenly as Ormund dug into his breakfast with great relish. "I dreamed that I was a direwolf – my direwolf – and I was running in a forest. I was being chased. I was so parched…but I did not have time to stop at the creek and drink…"

"Be in good spirits Bran," advised Ormund. "Thinking about a bad dream will dampen your mood. That is not good for a hunt eh? Eat up! Drink up! Father said it is good to go on a hunt on a full stomach."

"Really?"

"Come! You will have a jolly good time today! Once we written, you will have plenty to write to your family. They will be proud of you Bran. Oh! Imagine if the two of us kill a deer together! Would that not be thrilling?" _Not particularly_. Bran managed to smile at his friend and bite into his bread. On a regular day, it would taste delicious; today it tasted like sand.

Before Bran would eat a sausage, the king marched in, the queen at his side, a boisterous grin on his face and an uneasy smile on the queen's. "Let's go and hunt some boar!" boomed King Robert. "When we return for the feast, I want to see a boar's head on a plate!" Ormund cheered with some of the other knights who had been selected to be part of the royal hunt, sers Lancel Lannister and Loras Tyrell among them. Bran managed a weak smile as the king approached him.

"Excited Bran?" he said cheerfully.

"Very Your Grace," Bran lied. He forced himself to smile at the king. He hated lying and had a habit of looking at his feet when he did lie.

"That's my boy! When I first saw you, I thought you would be too like Ned – all honourable, solemn and all that. I kind of hoped you would be more like that late uncle of yours, Brandon Stark. I would've enjoyed hunting with him." He paused for a moment. "What was it that your father said that described a full Stark? Wolf blood. That's it. Wild wolf blood. Do you have it Bran Stark?"

"I don't think so Your Grace."

The king chuckled. "We shall see, eh? We shall see. Come! The sun won't smile on us all day! By the time you all finish breaking your fast, the boars would've all gone! You'll ride with my sons Bran." Ormund stood up enthusiastically, scoffing down the remainder of his sausage and bread. Bran followed him, more unhappy at the prospect of hunting than before.

"Are you hunting too?" Bran blurted out as he caught sight of Princess Lyanna pull on a pair of brown leather gloves. The princess smiled and nodded. "I have a wager with my brother Edric," she said pleasantly. "Edric is under the impression that I will flee at the sight of blood and had boasted he would hunt down a buck by himself. I wagered ten dragons I will kill a deer first."

"Take care, princess."

"Call me Lyanna, remember? I will wipe that smug grin from Edric's face, mark my words." She flushed with excitement. "How is your wolf?"

"Very well…Lyanna. My wolf is healthy, but low in spirits I believe. He longs to prowl the Red Keep with freedom as he did in Winterfell."

"That is dangerous is it not? He can have freedom of the kingswood next time you decide to go hunting. Maybe the godswood too if you're there to keep an eye on him." Bran nodded gratefully. "Thank you Lyanna." They followed King Robert, Queen Catelyn, Ormund and Orys out of the Great Hall. "The maesters say that it is now closer to the end of summer," Bran overheard a passing Crownlands lord say to his friend. "As the Starks say, winter is coming."

"Are the leaves not beautiful?" Lyanna remarked, nodding at the pile of orange and red leaves dancing from the godswood. "It is a pity the long summer is near an end. We will have a long winter now."

Bran nodded. "Summer is near an end," he repeated softly to himself. _Summer_. Something jolted inside of him. _Summer_. As he mounted his horse and urged him into a steady trot across the courtyard, he could've sworn he heard a wolf howl – his direwolf's howl.

 _Summer._

* * *

 **I've decided to continue with my original plan and include a chapter about Jon's time in Dorne if it's necessary. I might write a spin-off later. Anyway, I've changed my plan outline slightly and I'll tell you more about them when the changes kick in. Two more chapters until Part 3 :D Again, at the end of Part 2, there will be an appendix :)**


	50. Steffon I

"The young lord is shaking again! Oh where is the maester? Lord Baratheon'll be so angry if we allow the poor lord to fall ill again!"

Steffon Baratheon shook his head, sighed and continued reading his book. The first time Lord Robert Arryn fell victim to shaking sickness, Steffon was alarmed. He dropped his book and ran to the young Lord Arryn's chambers, mostly out of curiosity. Over the year, he learnt that Robert was plagued with shaking sickness a good many times a month. By now, it had become a very common occurrence at Storm's End. Maester Jurne knew which potions to administer to the Arryn lord – his shaking sicknesses were more irritating now. Steffon felt sorry for him, but at times, wondered why his father agreed to foster the young lordling.

"You should be training." Cassana slid onto the seat in front of him. She pinned her black hair together with a simple golden clip. "Father will be visiting us soon, Steffon," she informed him. "In a few months' time probably."

"Really?" Steffon looked up with interest. "How do you know?"

"Devan Seaworth. He received a letter from his father this morning."

Steffon nodded thoughtfully. Father hardly wrote any letters and when he did, they were short, concise and to the point…and were usually addressed to either Maester Jurne or lady mother. The last time Father wrote to him was on his name day. _You are now ten_ , Father had written. _You are no longer a child Steffon. From now on, I expect to hear naught but outstanding news about you. It'll not be long before I summon you to King's Landing where you will continue your education. Your father, Stannis Baratheon, Hand of the King, Lord of Storm's End and Lord Protector of Dragonstone._

"Mother was not pleased," Cassana added, "yet she looked relieved. I think she was invited back to court." She sighed. "Do you think we will ever go and see our cousins in King's Landing?"

"One day. We will most certainly be invited to King's Landing when our cousin Lyanna finally weds Robb Stark. Our father will be offended if we are not invited to King's Landing for her wedding."

"It will be the wedding of a century."

Steffon nodded in agreement. "How is Lady Alyssa?" he asked stiffly. He wasn't keen in being engaged to a girl five years younger than him, but he respected his father's decision and still inquired about her daily. Perhaps one day in about six years' time, he would learn to love her. His own parents did not love each other – was it plain destiny that he too would not love his future wife? Steffon shook the thought from his head.

"Well," Cassana responded. "Perfectly healthy; nothing like her brother. She is quite close to Myrcella. They are the same age after all."

"Robert Arryn is a year younger than our brother Robert yet they are not close at all." During an intense training session in King's Landing, their brother Robert had broken his leg. It was now almost healed, but Father had sent him back home to Storm's End for a proper recovery. From the moment Brother Robert met the Lord of the Eyrie, he disliked him.

"Lord Robert was like a babe when he arrived, crying and sniffling for his lady mother. Thank the Seven he stopped weeping!" Cassana shuddered. "Even now, I still remember that horrible first night of his arrival." Steffon shivered. That was a night hard to forget. It seemed the child Lord of the Eyrie still did not sleep in a chamber of his own when he was directed to his new room in Storm's End. What Steffon heard the next day was more disturbing.

When Cassana told him in the morning, he assumed that Robert Arryn used to have a guard or servant constantly present in his room – that was not the case in the slightest. Apparently Robert Arryn slept with his mother. Anyway, during the horrible night, Robert went wandering around the sleeping quarters, apparently hunting for a female sleeping companion. The first bedchamber Lord Robert had come upon was Cassana's.

"It would've been amusing if he went into Lady Mother's rooms," Steffon said out aloud. "What a sight it would be!"

Cassana laughed. "Indeed," she agreed. "Lady Mother would slap him so hard it would bring colour to his cheeks!"

 _That would benefit him greatly_ , Steffon thought. Robert Arryn needed colour in his pallid cheeks A good slapping would solve that swiftly. "Is Lady Mother in her chambers again?"

"As always Steffon. She did go for a walk in the godswood this morning though. She came back in a hurry too." She paused thoughtfully. "At breakfast I inquired when Father and Lord Seaworth would return – Lady Mother told me to eat my bread and fruit silently until I learn to speak of more ladylike topics. How is what I said offensive to ladylike behaviour? Surely what I asked would be naught but daughterly concern for one's father!"

"Lady Mother must not appreciate Lord Seaworth's services. I hope we do not have to visit Casterly Rock again. All our lord grandfather spoke about last time was the greatness of House Lannister of Casterly Rock and the importance of his legacy. Grandfather had even hinted that upon his death, our brother Robert will succeed him as the next Lord of Casterly Rock!"

"He will have to take the last name 'Lannister'," Cassana pointed out, "but our uncle Tyrion is the rightful heir!"

"One never argues with the Lord of Casterly Rock," said Steffon, who could not resist mimicking their mother.

Cassana giggled. "I wish we see more of Uncle Tyrion," she said longingly. "He always lightens the mood here. I wonder what possessed him to decide to travel around Westeros from the Wall to the Water Gardens on a sudden whim. I wish he took us with him."

"Mother would never have allowed it."

"I wonder where Uncle Tyrion is now…"

The library door opened. Devan Seaworth. "Lord Steffon, Lady Cassana," said Devan with a polite nod.

"Devan," said Steffon, welcoming him with a broad smile. "What are you doing here? Should you not be learning the art of smuggling?" Devan cracked the tiniest of smiles. "No my lord," he answered honestly. "My father left his smuggling days behind once he entered Lord Baratheon's service."

"Only jesting with you," said Steffon, gesturing for him to come closer. "What book do you have there?"

"A book about the Dance of the Dragons. Shireen – I mean, Lady Shireen – had finished it and asked me to put it back and fetch her another book, this time one about Aegon the Conqueror."

"Shireen…" His elder sister's name sounded almost ghostly. From time to time, he'd accidently forget that he had an older sister cursed with greyscale, an older sister who was confined to her chambers at all times during the day with only a fool and one of the Onion Knight's sons for friends. Father hardly mentioned her; Lady Mother wanted to forget her. If Storm's End was haunted by a living ghost, it would be Shireen.

"How is she?" said Cassana curiously.

"Enjoying good health," Devan responded uncertainly. "She is sweet and kind, but lonely. Unhappy at times. She hears you talking to each other, at times even sees you sparring or eating, and wishes to be there too. Forgive me for speaking so bluntly Lady Cassana."

"My father preferred the blunt truth to lies and flattery," said Steffon quietly. "I don't see why we should not be treated to the truth too."

Encouraged, Devan Seaworth continued. "Lady Shireen would ask about you – she often inquires if you remember her. I tell her you do. She talks a lot about her books, and I fear I cannot offer her a particularly interesting conversation as I've not read as many books as she had." He hesitated. "Go on," Steffon urged. Devan bit his lip. "Lady Shireen asked if I could…smuggle one of you to her rooms," he said in a rush. "She actually asked that a few months ago and…I was too craven to ask any of you that."

"She wants to see us?" said Steffon, not believing his ears.

Devan nodded. "Very much my lord."

"We can go now," said Cassana, her eyes glowing with excitement. "I've often wanted to see Shireen, speak to her even, but Mother always kept me away. What do you say, Steffon? Shall we pay our older sister a long, overdue visit? You know as well as I do that Lady Mother will be in her chambers for quite some time! She will never have to know!"

Steffon nodded slowly. With all the fuss happening in the young Lord Robert's rooms and Mother in her chambers, what better time to finally speak to Shireen? He and Cassana followed Devan out of the library and to the end of the sleeping quarters, anticipation and curiosity pumping through their veins. Steffon knew it was a miracle for Shireen to survive the deadly greyscale – when she was a little girl too – and was aware half her cheek was scarred with it. That was about all he knew of his sister Shireen.

Devan knocked on a door and said softly. "Lady Shireen? It's me, Devan."

The door opened and both Steffon and the girl inside stepped back, their blue eyes marked with surprise and astonishment. For a few minutes, all they did was stare at each other. Finally, Steffon broke the wall of silence and asked. "Are you our sister Shireen?" He wanted to kick himself. What a stupid question! Of course she was his sister Shireen Baratheon! Who else would Devan lead them to? Their lady mother? Now that would be bewildering.

The girl nodded, a smile slowly spreading on her face. "Did Mother finally say you can see me?" she said hopefully.

Steffon shook his head guiltily. "We met Devan in the library and he told us of your wish to see us. We thought, um…well, we wanted…to come and see you, and know you more."

"Really?" Shireen's blue eyes shone like sparkling sapphires Aunt Catelyn had once worn around her neck. "This is not a jape?"

"A jape?" Cassana frowned. "Why would this be a jape?"

"When I was little, one of Lady Mother's maidservants' daughter came here. I thought she wanted to befriend me, but in truth, her friend challenged her to see if I was indeed a human being and not a ghost." The light in her eyes dimmed, but only a little. "I told Father and that girl was never seen again. Devan told me that Father sent the girl and her mother back to the Westerlands in disgrace. He also said that Mother was furious."

Steffon felt his fingers curl into fists. "We are not here because we were dared to," he said, grinding his teeth to keep his rising temper in check. "You are part of the family and we ought to know you more. Mother kept you away from us for all this time…not anymore."

Shireen beamed at them. She opened the door wider and signalled for them to come in. Steffon stepped in and looked around. The room was not large nor tiny and it was bare. There was one small window with a view of the sea, a bed with a plump white pillow and quilt decorated with prancing stags, two tables, with the smaller one holding a tall candle, two chairs and a stool, a large chest, a fireplace, its mouth stuffed with logs, twigs and sticks and an empty shelf. Scattered on the bed and table were a number of books and the only ornament Shireen seemed to possess was a miniature stag carved from weirwood.

"Where do you have supper?" said Cassana curiously. Shireen tapped the chair tucked under the table. "Cotta brings me my meals," she explained, "and when it's cold, she would light me a fire. She doesn't like talking, but from time to time she would give me a smile, and for me, that is enough. Would you like to share a tart with me?" She brought out a small strawberry tart – identical to the ones served at supper last night – and carefully divided it into four even pieces. _No doubt she planned to eat it later_ , pondered Steffon as he thanked her. It is so kind of her to share it with us. Shireen quickly bade them to sit: Devan on the stool, Steffon and Cassana on the two chairs and herself on the bed.

"This tart is delicious," remarked Cassana, probably out of politeness. Shireen smiled at her. "Your dress is lovely," Shireen commented. Cassana glanced down at her black gown lined with gold. Steffon noticed that Shireen was in a gown of dark green. Odd that she did not wear their House colours.

"Where is Patches?" wondered Steffon.

Shireen shrugged. "Out and about I suppose. Did you think it was wrong of our father to send Maester Cressen to Dragonstone? He is not in the best health and I hear Dragonstone is cold and gloomy."

"Father trusts Maester Cressen more than he trusts Maester Jurne, and he did need a trusted man to look after Dragonstone. He probably would have entrusted Dragonstone to Lord Davos if he did not need him in King's Landing."

"Quite true, Steffon." Steffon felt odd hearing her calling him by his name. He'd expected her not to know his name at all. "I wish Father would visit us more," she went on. "I enjoy reading, but at times wish I could do something else. I can sew a little, but that is dull." Steffon casted a sly sidewards glance at Cassana, who liked sewing in her spare time.

"Perhaps sewing would be more enjoyable if you had a companion?" Cassana suggested. "Maybe we could sew together?"

"That would be nice." Shireen smiled at her. "I've started a tapestry the other day. Maybe we can finish it together. It is a tapestry of Storm's End. I know it isn't interesting or romantic, but Storm's End is home."

"Indeed," Steffon agreed. "Home."

"Can I see it?" said Cassana, interested.

Shireen blushed slightly. "It isn't particularly good." She went to her chest and rummaged through it before picking up a medium-sized linen. She shyly handed it to Cassana. Steffon looked at it. From the small patches of embroidery Cassana had showed him last week, Shireen's embroidery was more clumsy and a few of her stitches crooked. Then again, he recalled their mother snapping at Cassana a number of times to straighten her stitches. Probably no on informed Shireen that in her confined childhood.

"It is lovely," said Cassana simply. Her fingers brushed over what appeared to be a half-embroidered tower. "Very pretty."

"Thank you," said Shireen, beaming with pleasure. "Devan, can you please go and keep an eye out for Mother? I do not wish for my brother and sister to be in trouble for speaking to me."

"Of course my lady," said Devan, who looked happy to oblige in her request. "I will go immediately." He dipped his head at Cassana and Steffon and hurried out, almost skipping in a manner similar to Patchface. Steffon bit his lip, hiding a tiny, upcoming smile. Cassana also seemed to conceal a lingering grin.

"I heard you enjoy reading," spoke Cassana. "Any books in particular?"

"I am currently reading _'The Princess and the Queen'_ ," said Shireen, pointing at the fat book on her table. "Last time Uncle Tyrion visited, he wasn't afraid to talk to me. He spoke about his childhood fondness of dragons and suggested I read a book about the Dance of the Dragons. Back then I was reading 'Kin of the Stag', as I was interested in the history of the Stormlands. I still am, but Uncle Tyrion had proposed I read more about the history of Westeros starting from the Dawn Age. Our library didn't have many books about that time period and I asked our uncle if he could borrow me a few when he returned to King's Landing."

"Did he agree?" said Steffon, biting down a twinge of jealousy. Why was Uncle Tyrion allowed to see Shireen while he, Cassana and their younger siblings were almost encouraged to stay away from her? Then again, Uncle Tyrion never liked to listen to Mother. When they were in Storm's End's Great Hall, their arguments could be heard throughout Storm's End.

"He said he'll see what he can do. He wrote to me too." She went to her drawer and returned, clutching a massive stack of letters bound together by a long black ribbon, its edges frayed. "Devan would sneak Uncle Tyrion's letters to me in case Mother would burn them," Shireen explained. "Wherever he would be, he would write me a letter – he would draw a sigil on the corner of the letter too – and on my latest name day, he wrote me another letter, promising that when he stops by at Casterly Rock for a day or two of respite, he'd send his copies of _'Wonders'_ and _'Wonders By Man'_ to me. He said that his own uncle Gerion gave them to him as a name day gift and if I enjoy reading them, he would gift them to me in turn." She beamed. "Uncle Tyrion is so kind. He said that if I am still confined here once I am a lady grown, he'd come and take me away to the Free Cities."

Steffon stared at the pile of letters, envy growing inside of him. Uncle Tyrion sent him more letters than Father did, but never had he mentioned taking _him_ on a tour of the Free Cities or giving him any books. _You are the heir of Storm's End_ , Steffon reminded himself. _Everyone knows you and talks to you – how many talk to Shireen? Uncle Tyrion is a dwarf. He of all people can relate to Shireen the most_. "I don't know when your name day is," he said uncomfortably.

Shireen smiled at him. "That is alright. I do not know yours either. By any…um, any chance, do our younger siblings remember me?"

"I don't think so," said Steffon truthfully. Cassana shot him a glare. "Why don't you go and…train?" she suggested. "I'd like to talk to Shireen alone. If you want to talk to her too, we can swap in an hour or so."

Fair enough. Steffon stood up and smiled at Shireen. "I'm glad to have finally met you," he said truthfully to her. "I'd like to see you more often too."

"I would too," Shireen responded. "This has been the happiest day of my life – no jest, Steffon. No jest. Thank you for coming here."

Steffon grinned and left her chamber, all signs of jealousy gone. At a leisurely pace, he walked to the training yard, thinking about Shireen. He'd expected a sad girl who did not know how to smile. Instead…he met a happy girl. Lonely but still very happy. Each letter she received she treasured as if it was a precious jewel or dragon egg. Every smile she obtained was similarly priceless to her. Shireen was cursed with the scars of greyscale and outwardly disfigured, but she had a heart of gold – more valuable gold than that found in Casterly Rock.

His mind far away, he picked up his favourite practice blade. One day soon, he would hold a blade of live steel of his own. All the best swords have names; he'd name his Fury – unless his cousin Orys wanted to name _his_ sword or warhammer Fury, then he would name his sword…something else. Perhaps he would ask the Onion Knight (or Onion Lord) for suggestions. Lord Davos Seaworth was always good at choosing names for the ships of the royal fleet. When the king named two of the ships, he named them _Lady Lyanna_ and _Queen Cat_ , after his late betrothed and his wife. Quite sweet, but Steffon preferred the ship names the Onion Knight suggested such as King Robert's Hammer.

With a sigh, Steffon turned his attention to the half dozen practice dummies in front of him. It was more fun sparring with one of the Seaworths. He stabbed the first practice dummy in the heart, spun around and almost yelped with fright, his heart pounding loudly as he came face to face with a stranger.

The stranger was a woman, the most beautiful woman Steffon had laid eyes on. Her hair was the colour of burnished copper and she had pale, unblemished skin. She was tall and moved gracefully as if guided by the wind. Furthermore, she was draped in red, from the red gold choker around her neck to the long gown of red silk that wrapped around her body.

"Can I help you?" Steffon heard himself ask.

The red woman smiled mysteriously. "You are Steffon Baratheon," she stated with an exotic accent, "the son of Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and the Lord Protector of Dragonstone and the Lady Cersei Lannister. I am here to speak to your lady mother. Where might I find her?"

"Who are you?"

The lady's red eyes glowed as she touched the huge ruby that glistened at her throat. "I am a priestess to R'hllor, the Lord of Light, the Heart of Fire, the God of the Flame and the Shadow. My young lord, if it is my name you wish to hear, I am Melisandre. Melisandre of Asshai."

* * *

 **For those of you confused, currently this is in 299 AC. The next chapter will be in 300 AC. I'll remind you again next week when I post the chapter and the appendix :) I hope you don't mind if I post a chapter a week as final semester exams are rolling up in two weeks. I've also added new ASOIAF story ideas I plan to write in my profile page so if there's one you really want me to start, just let me know :)**


	51. The Patient Prince

For the first time since Elia's murder, Doran wanted to move his ivory dragon in his game of cyvasse. Unwise, but his patience was waning. Cyvasse was not the game he was playing so slowly and carefully. Like the Baratheons, Starks, Tyrells, Tullys and Lannisters, Prince Doran Martell played a dangerous game of intrigue – the game of thrones.

"The time is not ripe yet my prince."

Doran chuckled and said with a hint of sarcasm, "When will it ever be the right time? Even patient men grow…restless."

"Oh, my lord Doran, you have been more than patient." Lord Varys rubbed his hands and smiled enigmatically at him. Today he had worn the rich scarlet robes of a visiting magister from Pentos. A fitting disguise. "I only desire for you to wait a little longer. Our pieces are set on the board and it is almost time to play."

" _Almost_ time to play, Lord Varys? The boy is of age to lead men to war, wed his long-betrothed and sire much-needed heirs. I will not live forever Lord Varys and nor will you. The more we sit and do nothing, the more suspicious Lord Stannis becomes. That man is suspicious of everyone and trusts very few – I applaud him for that, Lord Varys. At times like this, I wish Jon Arryn was still the King's Hand. A clever man, but more…trusting." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Lord Arryn was poisoned too early."

"It was not by Lenn the Red's hand, Prince Doran. Old Pycelle is a fool, but he knows his poisons – not quite as well as your brother, but good enough. I'd also checked our grand maester's records and even questioned our good friend Lenn; someone else poisoned Lord Arryn."

Doran raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

The eunuch shrugged. "I am as clueless as you my lord."

"You are the Master of Whisperers Lord Varys," Doran pointed out, moving his ivory elephant. "It is your duty to know."

"It seems our Lord Stannis has a distaste for eunuchs as well as Tyrells. In the council meetings, his eyes never dwell past mine for long and his beloved Onion Knight distrusts me too." He sighed dramatically. "It seems no one likes a eunuch these days. Even a helpful one." Doran studied the ivory catapult before glancing at the ivory trebuchet. With an impatient sigh, the Master of Whisperers moved and sat down on the empty chair opposite him. "We have a bigger game to play, Prince Doran," he said, leaning forward. "Much more important than your game of cyvasse. I hope you understand that my prince."

"I'm perfectly aware of it Lord Varys," said Doran mildly, "though cyvasse also clears the mind, no?"

"I enjoy a game of cyvasse as much as the next man, Prince Doran."

"I see."

"Prince Doran, the boy is not yet ready to take command of the armies – from what I saw today, he'll be ready in a year or two. However, you owe me answers do you not agree?"

Doran moved his trebuchet. "What would you like to know?"

"A little bird said there is to be a wedding here at the Water Gardens between the Lord of Starfall and your little cousin, sweet Matysse Martell. When I came to speak to you, I could not help but notice the lovely Lady Stark, her daughter and her husband's bastard. I do not see how their presence here will benefit us in our game, my lord. I am more concerned of the harm of their presence."

"Lady Stark suggested I send Quentyn to Winterfell to be Lord Stark's ward as her daughter is now mine and Jon Snow is Oberyn's squire. I hope Lady Stark did not become offended when I declined."

Lord Varys looked thoughtful. "You declined, Prince Doran?"

"It is a long journey from Dorne to the North, Lord Varys. I do not want my son trapped in the cold North when we begin the game. The Riverlands, the Vale, the Iron Islands, the Crownlands, the Stormlands and even the Westerlands are not our friends, Lord Varys."

"The Iron Islands are no one's friend."

Doran agreed with a firm nod. "Indeed Lord Varys. It is safer with all three of my children safe in Dorne."

"You've agreed to Lord Stannis's terms?"

"What choice do I have, Lord Varys? Inform him that Arianne is considering to be a septa? An unlikely story. No, Lord Stannis is a suspicious man and will sniff us out. He might be doubting us already. We had a good plan, Lord Varys, but you - without my or our good friend Lenn the Red's knowledge or consent – decided to end it by killing the young man in question." Now it was the prince of Dorne's turn to lean forward. "I believe you owe me answers now, do you not think? I am aware that Grand Maester Pycelle favoured the Lannisters during the Mad King's reign– do you favour the roses of Highgarden, Lord Varys? Would you've rather seen a Tyrell for queen than my Arianne?"

The eunuch rubbed his hands together again and grimaced. "You too, my lord of Dorne? You too? No one trusts a eunuch!"

 _Mayhaps no one trusts the Master of Whisperers_. Catching a glimpse of Doran's solemn expression, Varys sighed a second time. "My little birds reported that he is not…sane," he confessed softly. "I went to see him for myself…he was too much like the Mad King, my prince. All signs of insanity were showing. It was too much. The realm cannot tolerate another mad king. Last time we had a mad king on the throne, it led to a rebellion and a Baratheon on the throne. All I want is peace in the Seven Kingdoms, Prince Doran. A Baratheon cannot keep peace in Westeros. For a few years yes, a few decades maybe, but for centuries? Never. Stags are not meant to be kings. Only dragons can rule the Seven Kingdoms."

"We of House Nymeros Martell have ruled Dorne for many centuries," Doran said, his tone cold. "Even before the dragons if you care to remember. We have a long history, Lord Varys. We were not descended from stewards and must I say we do not depend on the dragons? Dorne joined the Seven Kingdoms through the act of _matrimony_ , eunuch. Not through defeat or conquest. The dragons decided to conquer Westeros but they could not conquer Dorne with their fire and blood as much as they tried. I want the boy on the Iron Throne because it is his rightful place and he is of my blood, not because my House will not gain more power as a loyal subject of the stags."

"I do not understand, my prince. Only a moment ago, you accused me for being closer to the Tyrells by eliminating the boy's uncle? Would you have rather your daughter as queen wedded to a mad king or your nephew as the rightful king on the Iron Throne with a Tyrell for queen?"

Doran dropped the cyvasse piece he was examining back onto his round table and wheeled himself to the wide window. He stared at the swarm of children of all stations running into the pools, splashing and laughing. _A child's laugh is said to be contagious_ , Doran reflected. _Dorne cannot rise against the Iron Throne on its own – it will bring naught but failure. We have a higher chance of defending our lands, but marching to the Crownlands? No, no. We have no chance. The Tyrells have the largest armies but they do not understand loyalty outside family…there is still too much at risk…what if the boy rejects the Tyrell girl for another?_ A chill struck his spine. What if the boy decides to wed a Stark? It would be the tourney at Harrenhal all over again. Another war, more deaths, another royal House gone, a new royal family. It would never end.

"It is a good time to gather more allies Prince Doran. Mercenaries, Tyrell men and your own will not be enough."

"Who else is there willing to rebel against the Baratheons?"

"The Lannisters? The Greyjoys?"

Doran could not resist a snort. "Lord Varys, Oberyn would rather stab himself in the eye than ally himself with the Lannisters. How can I ally with a man whose dog raped and murdered my sister? How can I befriend a man who ordered that leech of a soldier to murder my niece? No. I will never have my brother suffer by allying with the Lannisters."

"Come now my prince of Dorne," wheedled the wily eunuch. "Convincing Lord Tywin is much easier than Balon Greyjoy." He had a point. All that old Lion of the Rock cared about was the Lannister legacy.

"I only have the one daughter," Doran pointed out, "who is betrothed to Willas Tyrell but about to marry Renly Baratheon. I cannot engage her to the Imp, who I hear is full of wit. Oh the Imp of House Lannister is very clever, yes, but what will he inherit upon Tywin Lannister's death? Nothing!"

"Does that not serve your purposes, my prince? If your daughter weds Tyrion Lannister, she will remain your heir. Was that not what she always wanted? It is better than going through with that scheme of marrying Margaery to your eldest son. Of course it would have served our purposes much better if Renly Baratheon _had_ married the beautiful Lady Margaery." Varys tittered. "Was that another fault of our grim Hand of the King?"

"You are the Master of Whisperers. Pray tell me."

"Come now Prince Doran. Do you truly yearn for me to inform you? You know as well as I do who is at fault."

Of course Doran knew. Once he sensed the end of Margaery and Renly's long-term betrothal and Lord Stannis's offer of Renly as a husband for Arianne, he felt a surge of anger – the first in a very long time. He wanted that bumbling idiot of Highgarden to die; he would've permitted Oberyn to poison him if he hadn't held his anger in check.

"It is surprising how a son of Olenna Tyrell can turn out to be such a fool," said Doran aloud. "When is he to know…?"

"Not until we move the dragon on the cyvasse board my prince of Dorne. Mace Tyrell will not hear of the plan until it is in motion. It is Lady Olenna who controls Highgarden, Prince Doran, not Lord Mace Tyrell. Forgive me Prince Doran, but ah, my stay in Dorne had been long enough. I must return to King's Landing. Do you not have a wedding to attend to?"

"One more matter." Doran turned and stared at the Spider. "What are we to do about Daenerys Targaryen?"

* * *

"Did our good friend the Spider bring warm tidings?"

Doran sighed. "Not now, Oberyn. We are at a wedding. Your impatience is like a child's. Can you not wait until the feast?" He ignored Oberyn's soft curse under his breath and returned his attention to the front of the sept. Both children were dressed lavishly, Lord Dayne in silver with a thin purple cloak emblazoned with a silver falling star and Matysse wrapped in white. They were both still young, but as Matysse now had her moon blood and Lady Stark unable to stay in Dorne for another year, it was decided for her and Lord Dayne to wed.

The septon cleared his throat. "Look upon each other and say the words."

"I will remain impatient until I see Tywin Lannister's head at my feet," Oberyn hissed quietly. "Elia deserves justice!"

"…Maiden, Crone, Stranger…"

"Take care, Brother," Doran murmured. "Do not mistake revenge for justice."

"…I am his and she is mine…"

"Justice, revenge, what does it matter?" Oberyn's black eyes flashed angrily. "I will not rest until my spears have tasted Tywin Lannister's blood!" Doran swiftly silenced him with a glare as Lady Stark gave him a questionable look.

"…from this day until the end of my days." The guests – including Doran – had broken into applause as Lord Dayne hesitantly kissed his bride on the lips. Doran smiled as Oberyn grudgingly clapped a few times at the urging of his paramour, Ellaria Sand, who sat on his other side.

The two children descended the altar steps and slowly led the procession to a less watery part of the Water Gardens for the feast. Doran noted that Lord Dayne made sure Matysse did not trip over her long cloak. Outside, the golden orb of a sun beamed at them and guided the newly-wedded couple to the festivities. As it was considered not a huge affair, the tables were set out differently. Situated the closest to the marble arches was the high table; scattered in front of it were small round tables, covered by fabric alternatively bearing the Martell and Dayne sigils and over them were platters of food, varying from traditional Dornish dishes like flatbread with chickpea paste and purple olives to an array of different fruit tarts and lemon cakes popular in other regions of the Seven Kingdoms, and of course, the wedding pie. Accompanying the plates of delicious food were flagons filled to the brim of shimmering Arbor gold, red summerwine which carried a sweet and rather fruity flavour, Dornish strongwine as dark as blood and declared to be as sweet as vengeance, mead, cider and the usual ale.

The Lord and Lady of Starfall were seated in the centre of the high table. Lady Stark had been given the honour of sitting beside Lord Dayne, but she'd elected to sit with her daughter, sister, good-brother and Jon Snow at one of the smaller tables – the one closest to the high table. Doran wheeled himself to the place at Matysse's left and Oberyn promptly sat down next to him. As Lord Dayne's father and mother were both dead, Matysse's parents were seated next to Lord Dayne instead. All the guests slowly sat down and with a nod from Doran, began eating and drinking and talking amongst themselves.

"What did the Spider tell you?"

"Try this," said Doran, pushing what appeared to be spiced lamb wrapped in flatbread towards Oberyn. "I hear it is delicious." He sipped some ale as he began studying the guests, a favourite game of his. Lady Stark looked happy chatting to Lady Dondarrion, who had given birth last year to a boy. After seventeen years of marriage to a Stark of Winterfell, she still seemed more Dornish than Northern – a Northerner would settle affairs quickly and leave; Lady Ashara Stark had been in Dorne for about two years, if not more. Beside her was her daughter, a pretty girl of seven with Stark grey eyes and long dark hair – half-Stark, half-Dayne. She was to be his ward for the next few years, and perhaps even good-daughter (if it didn't interfere with the great game of course). Today it wasn't Lady Stark or her daughter that fascinated him, nor the Dondarrions. It was the honourable Eddard Stark's bastard, Jon Snow.

For one, there was something very familiar about Jon Snow. Was it his mop of curly dark hair? His almost black eyes? His brooding nature? Doran just couldn't put a finger on it. Actually it was Oberyn who pointed it out to him five minutes after meeting him. He had accepted him as his squire without complaint but after Jon left to eat, Oberyn had asked, "Does he not look familiar to you?"

Currently Jon Snow was picking at his bowl of soup, spooning some up only to watch the liquid drip back into his bowl. Trystane used to similarly play with his food…when he was a child.

"Brother," Oberyn said again, "my patience is waning."

What patience? "You lack patience Brother," Doran remarked. "However, if it'll satisfy you…" He excused himself and wheeled away inside the palace, not so far that he could not see the guests. Oberyn leant against the marble colonnade as he waited eagerly for news.

"I may have made a grievous error," Doran admitted. Oberyn's eyebrows shot up. "A mistake? I doubt it. When do you ever make mistakes?"

"The matter of ah, the late Lord Dayne's bastard."

"That girl? You never saw her."

"Indeed. From Varys' reports, she does not seem as docile as we thought. The Spider also hinted at the possibility of her falling in love with Jon Snow. The last thing we want is for her to fall in love with a bastard – and Lord Stark's at that. I want the stag removed, but I do not want another mad king born from a brother and sister. The boy is aware of it, but the girl does not know. I had hoped that the little bird in the North would've succeeded in telling the girl of her true heritage – he obviously failed. If Quentyn was Lord Stark's ward, he would have a chance to seduce the girl who will be his wife."

"Not Trystane? He is better looking than Quentyn. If I was Lord Dayne's pretty little bastard, I would fall in love much faster with Trystane than Quentyn." Again, Oberyn had a good point. Last time Quentyn visited from Yronwood, Areo Hotah almost mistook him for a merchant. Short-legged and stocky with a plain face, his elder son Quentyn looked pleasant, but not very handsome. Examining Jon Snow, Doran suspected all the lads at Winterfell were much handsomer than Quentyn. Either way, that girl would wed one of his sons.

"That fool of Highgarden almost ruined the game," Doran revealed. "He would not have his precious daughter married to the king's brother unless he was given either Storm's End or Dragonstone."

"Typical of the Fat Flower. Accused me of crippling his son."

Doran shook his head with a sigh. "Not that again. I will tell you more later. We must return to the feast."

"I will still have the Mountain?" Oberyn pressed.

"We shall see. Come, let us eat. I would like to taste a blackberry or strawberry tart before Arianne and your daughters take them all."

"You? Blackberry tart?" Oberyn snickered. "I remember you vowing that you'll never eat food from King's Landing until you have tasted sweet vengeance. Was I hearing this or did you actually say it?"

"Did you drink too much strongwine already Oberyn?"

Oberyn glanced at the goblet in his hand. "When Elia died, I could not sleep for days," he said in a low voice. "When night fell, all I could do was plot the old lion's downfall. I would crave for his blood, and the blood of the two savage men who murdered our sister and niece. Nothing will bring Rhaenys back. Brother, do you remember Rhaenys? The sweet little girl who found pleasure in toddling around and chasing that black kitten of hers? Only a Lannister would order the death of a child. How many times did it take that bastard to kill her? Half a hundred thrusts. She died in _pain_ , Brother. Considerable pain. Once old Tywin gains a green-eyed, golden-haired Lannister grandchild of his own, I will go to Casterly Rock and kill the child with half a hundred thrusts."

"No!" said Doran sharply. "Oberyn, you are once again blinded by rage! Here in Dorne, we do not harm children!"

"Oh do not worry Brother. No Lannister blood will be spilled in Dorne."

"You will not go to Casterly Rock and kill all the Lannisters you see by sight. It is against our House words."

" _Against_ our House words?" Oberyn stared at Doran in wonder. "Brother! You are not thinking clearly! Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken! You are bowing in fear of the consequences of destroying House Lannister! You are bending in submission to the Iron Throne! You have been broken since Elia's death!"

"Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken," Doran repeated slowly. "It is not me who had bowed to the unquenchable thirst for vengeance. It is not me who had bent to the desire to see blood. It is not me who had broke over Elia's death, Brother. I know our House words well – do you?"

Oberyn darkened. "Until the year's end, Brother," he warned grumpily. "I have waited too long. The Baratheons and Lannisters may have forgotten or don't care, but I remember. I will always remember."

"You have said that for the last two years Oberyn, yet you have not taken one step out of Dorne. All you've done for the last few years is brood. Let us return to the wedding, Brother. We will talk more later. As the children are both young, it had been decided that there will be no bedding tonight. If by then you are still in a sober mood, you are welcomed to come to my solar where I will share a…tale I heard from Lord Varys. It regards Lord Eddard Stark's marriage to Lady Ashara." Doran couldn't resist a smile as Oberyn stared at him, astonished.

"What is it?" said Oberyn urgently.

Doran's smile widened. "Tonight, Brother. I will tell you tonight." He began to wheel himself back to the garden. He paused. "Brother, try and keep this in mind: the Starks remember, the Lannisters always pay their debts, and we descendants of Nymeria and Mors Martell? We never forget."

* * *

 **This is early 300 AC, like a few days after the ASOIAF version of New Year's or something. Well that wraps up a very long Part 2! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I liked writing it :) Part 2's appendix will be uploaded shortly.**


	52. Appendix II

**I've uploaded the last chapter of Part 2 before this in case you are unaware.**

* * *

HOUSE BARATHEON OF KING'S LANDING

KING ROBERT BARATHEON, the First of His Name,

· His wife, QUEEN CATELYN, of House Tully,

· Their children:

o PRINCESS LYANNA, a maiden of fifteen, betrothed to Robb Stark,

o PRINCE ORYS, heir to the Iron Throne, a young man of thirteen,

o PRINCE ORMUND, a boy of ten,

o PRINCESS MINISA, a girl of six,

· His brothers:

o STANNIS BARATHEON, Lord of Storm's End and Lord Protector of Dragonstone,

o LORD RENLY BARATHEON, a man of twenty three,

· His bastard children:

o EDRIC STORM, his acknowledged bastard son by Lady Delena of House Florent, a boy of ten,

o GENDRY WATERS, his acknowledged bastard son, a young man of thirteen,

o Numerous others, including the girl at the Vale,

· His small council:

o GRAND MAESTER PYCELLE,

o LORD STANNIS BARATHEON, Hand of the King,

o SER KEVAN LANNISTER, Master of Laws,

o LORD PAXTER REDWYNE, Master of Ships,

o LORD PETYR BAELISH, Master of Coin,

o SER BARRISTAN SELMY, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,

o VARYS, a eunuch, called the Spider, Master of Whisperers,

· His Kingsguard:

o SER BARRISTAN SELMY, called Barristan the Bold, Lord Commander,

o SER JAIME LANNISTER, called the Kingslayer,

o SER BRYNDEN TULLY, called the Blackfish,

o SER LYLE CRAKEHALL, called the Strongboar,

o SER GARTH HIGHTOWER, called Garth Greysteel,

o SER ARYS OAKHEART,

o SER BALON SWANN.

Principal houses sworn to the Iron Throne are Blount, Buckwell, Chelsted, Hayford, Rosby, Rykker, Stokeworth and Thorne.

* * *

HOUSE BARATHEON OF STORM'S END

STANNIS BARATHEON, Lord of Storm's End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Lord Protector of Dragonstone and Hand of the King,

· His wife, LADY CERSEI, of House Lannister,

· Their children:

o SHIREEN, a maiden of thirteen,

o STEFFON, heir to Storm's End, betrothed to Lady Alyssa Arryn, a twin to Cassana, eleven,

o CASSANA, a twin to Steffon, eleven,

o ROBERT, a boy of nine,

o MYRCELLA, a girl of six,

o TOMMEN, a boy of four,

· His wards:

o ROBERT ARRYN, Lord of the Eyrie, a boy of eight,

o ALYSSA ARRYN, a girl of six.

Principal houses sworn to Storm's End are Selmy, Wylde, Trant, Penrose, Errol, Estermont, Tarth, Swann, Dondarrion and Caron.

Principal houses sworn to Dragonstone are Celtigar, Velaryon, Seaworth, Bar Emmon and Sunglass.

* * *

HOUSE ARRYN

{JON ARRYN}, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East and Hand of the King,

· His first wife, {LADY JEYNE, of House Royce}, died in childbed, her daughter stillborn,

· His second wife, {LADY ROWENA, of House Arryn}, died of a winter chill, childless,

· His widow, LADY LYSA, of House Tully,

· Their children:

o SANSA, betrothed to Ser Harrold Hardyng, twelve,

o ROBERT, the new Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East, eight,

o ALYSSA, betrothed to Steffon Baratheon, six.

Principal houses sworn to the Eyrie are Royce, Baelish, Egen, Waynwood, Hunter, Redfort, Corbray, Belmore and Hersy.

* * *

HOUSE DAYNE

EDRIC DAYNE, Lord of Starfall,

· His wife, LADY MATYSSE, of House Martell,

· His aunts:

o ASHARA, wed to Lord Eddard Stark,

o ALLYRIA, wed to Lord Beric Dondarrion,

Ø Their son, ARTHUR, the heir to Blackhaven, a boy of one.

* * *

HOUSE GREYJOY

BALON GREYJOY, Lord of the Iron Islands, Son of the Sea Wind, the Greyjoy and Lord Reaper of Pyke,

· His wife, LADY ALANNYS, of House Harlaw,

· Their children:

o {RODRIK}, their eldest son, died in the Greyjoy Rebellion,

Ø His widow, LADY GWYNETH, of House Goodbrother,

o {MARON}, their second son, died in the Greyjoy Rebellion,

Ø His widow, LADY TARRA, of House Mallister,

o ASHA, their daughter, a woman of twenty two,

o THEON, their youngest son, heir to Pyke, a ward of Eddard Stark, twenty,

· His brothers:

o EURON, called Crow's Eye, captain of the _Silence_ , an outlaw, pirate and raider,

o VICTARION, Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet,

o AERON, called Damphair, a priest of the Drowned God.

Houses sworn to Pyke include Harlaw, Stonehouse, Merlyn, Sunderly, Botley, Tawney, Wynch and Goodbrother.

* * *

HOUSE HIGHTOWER

LEYTON HIGHTOWER, Lord of the Hightower, Lord of the Port, Voice of Oldtown, Defender of the Citadel, Beacon of the South,

· His first wife, {LADY JEYNE, of House Rosby}, died of the pox, childless,

· His second wife, {LADY ELANOR, of House Oakheart}, died of a winter chill,

o BAELOR, their eldest son, heir to the Hightower,

Ø His wife, LADY RHONDA, of House Rowan,

à Their eldest daughter, MAELLE, a maid of twenty two,

à Their only son, GEROLD, a young man of eighteen,

à Their younger daughter, CHALYSSE, a maiden of sixteen,

o MALORA, their eldest daughter, a maid of forty one,

o SER GARTH, called Garth Greysteel,

o ALERIE, their younger daughter, wed to Lord Mace Tyrell,

· His third wife, {LADY MALEIA, of House Crane}, died of a fever,

o LEYLA, their eldest daughter, wed to Lord Edmure Tully,

o ALYSANNE, their second daughter, wed to Lord Arthur Ambrose,

o SER GUNTHOR, their eldest son,

Ø His wife, LADY JEYNE, of House Fossoway,

o SER HUMPHREY, their second son, twenty eight,

o LYNESSE, their youngest daughter, wed to Lord Jorah Mormont,

· His current wife, LADY RHEA, of House Florent, currently childless.

* * *

HOUSE LANNISTER

TYWIN LANNISTER, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West and Shield of Lannisport,

· His wife, {LADY JOANNA}, a cousin, died in childbed,

· Their children:

o SER JAIME, called the Kingslayer, a twin to Cersei,

o CERSEI, wed to Lord Stannis Baratheon, a twin to Jaime,

o TYRION, a dwarf, twenty seven,

· His siblings:

o SER KEVAN, his eldest brother,

Ø His wife, DORNA, of House Swyft,

à Their eldest son, SER LANCEL, a young man of seventeen,

à Their twin sons, WILLEM and MARTYN, fifteen,

à Their only daughter, JANEI, four,

o GENNA, his sister, wed to Ser Emmon Frey,

Ø Their son, SER CLEOS FREY, sixteen,

Ø Their son, TION FREY, a squire,

o {SER TYGETT}, his second brother, died of pox,

Ø His widow, DARLESSA, of House Marbrand,

à Their son, TYREK, a young man of seventeen,

o {SER GERION}, lost at sea,

Ø His widow, SELYSE, of House Florent,

Ø His bastard daughter, JOY, a maiden of thirteen,

· Their cousin, SER STAFFORD LANNISTER, brother to the late Lady Joanna,

o His daughters, CERENNA and MYRIELLE,

o His son, DAVEN LANNISTER.

Principal houses sworn to Casterly Rock are Payne, Swyft, Marbrand, Lydden, Banefort, Lefford, Crakehall, Serrett, Broom, Clegane, Prester and Westerling.

* * *

HOUSE MARTELL

DORAN NYMEROS MARTELL, Lord of Sunspear and Prince of Dorne,

· His wife, MELLARIO, of the Free City of Norvos,

· Their children:

o PRINCESS ARIANNE, their eldest daughter, heir to Sunspear, twenty four,

o PRINCE QUENTYN, their elder son, nineteen,

o PRINCE TRYSTANE, their youngest son, thirteen,

· His siblings:

o His sister, {PRINCESS ELIA}, wed to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, slain during the Sack of King's Landing,

Ø {PRINCESS RHAENYS}, a young girl, slain during the Sack of King's Landing,

Ø {PRINCE AEGON}, a babe, apparently slain during the Sack of King's Landing,

o His brother, PRINCE OBERYN, the Red Viper,

· Their cousin, SER MORS MARTELL,

o His wife, KIARRA, of the Free City of Tyrosh,

Ø Their daughter, MATYSSE, wed to Lord Edric Dayne.

o His brother, SER MANFREY MARTELL, the castellan of Sunspear.

* * *

HOUSE STARK

EDDARD STARK, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North,

· His wife, LADY ASHARA, of House Dayne,

· Their children:

o ROBB, the heir to Winterfell, a young man of sixteen, betrothed to Princess Lyanna Baratheon,

o LYARRA, their eldest daughter, a maiden of thirteen, betrothed to Domeric Bolton,

o ARYA, their second daughter, a girl of eleven,

o BRANDON, their second son, a boy of ten,

o GWENYSSE, their youngest daughter, a girl of seven,

o ARTHUR, their third son, a boy of five,

o RICKON, their youngest son, a boy of two,

· His bastard son, JON SNOW, a young man of seventeen,

· His wards:

o DAENERYS SAND, a maiden of eighteen, actually Daenerys Targaryen,

o DOMERIC BOLTON, heir to the Dreadfort, a man of nineteen,

o THEON GREYJOY, heir to Pyke, twenty,

· His siblings:

o {BRANDON}, his elder brother, murdered by the command of Aerys II Targaryen,

o {LYANNA}, his younger sister, died in the mountains of Dorne,

o BENJEN, his younger brother, First Ranger of the Night's Watch.

Principal houses sworn to Winterfell are Karstark, Umber, Flint, Mormont, Hornwood, Cerwyn, Reed, Manderly, Glover, Tallhart and Bolton.

* * *

HOUSE TULLY

{HOSTER TULLY}, Lord of Riverrun, Lord Paramount of the Trident,

· His wife, {LADY MINISA, of House Whent}, died in childbed,

· Their children:

o QUEEN CATELYN, the eldest daughter, wed to King Robert Baratheon,

o LYSA, the younger daughter, widow of Lord Jon Arryn,

o SER EDMURE, the new Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Trident,

Ø His wife, LADY LEYLA of House Hightower,

Ø Their children:

à HOSTER, the heir to Riverrun, thirteen,

à MELIA, their eldest daughter, a maiden of twelve,

à ROSALINE, their second daughter, a girl of ten,

à BRYNDON, their second son, a boy of eight,

à AXEL, their youngest son, a boy of six,

à ELIANOR, their youngest daughter, a girl of five,

· His brother, SER BRYNDEN, called the Blackfish.

Houses sworn to Riverrun include Darry, Frey, Mallister, Bracken, Blackwood, Whent, Ryger, Piper and Vance.

* * *

HOUSE TYRELL

MACE TYRELL, Lord of Highgarden, Warden of the South, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach,

· His wife, LADY ALERIE, of House Hightower of Oldtown,

· Their children:

o WILLAS, their eldest son, heir to Highgarden, a man of twenty four,

o SER GARLAN, their second son, a man of twenty three,

o LORAS, their youngest son, a young man of eighteen,

o MARGAERY, their daughter, a maid of seventeen,

· His widowed mother, LADY OLENNA, of House Redwyne, called the Queen of Thorns,

· His sisters:

o MINA, wed to Lord Paxter Redwyne,

Ø Their twin sons, HORAS and HOBBER, nineteen,

Ø Their daughter DESMERA, a maid of seventeen,

o JANNA, wed to Ser Jon Fossoway,

· His uncles:

o GARTH, called the Gross, Lord Seneschal of Highgarden,

Ø His bastard sons, GARSE and GARRETT FLOWERS,

o SER MORYN, Lord Commander of the City Watch of Oldtown,

o MAESTER GORMON, a scholar of the Citadel.

Principal houses sworn to Highgarden are Vyrwel, Florent, Oakheart, Hightower, Crane, Tarly, Redwyne, Rowan, Fossoway and Mullendore.

* * *

 **I'll upload the first chapter of Part 3 next week (hopefully) :) Thank you so much for reading this much of the story so far! I really appreciate it!**


	53. Lyanna II

If a future niece would ask Lyanna if she ever visited a beautiful palace as sung about in the songs, Lyanna would immediately think Highgarden. King's Landing stank of urine and human and animal excrement – Lyanna was accustomed to its smell, but compared to it, Highgarden was heaven.

For most of the journey from King's Landing to Highgarden, Lyanna alternated between riding and sitting in a wheelhouse. By chance, she had exited the stuffy wheelhouse to ride again when a man bearing the Tyrell sigil rode towards her party (herself, her mother and Minisa). Great Uncle Blackfish spurred his horse towards him, one hand grasping his sword, and called. "Who are you?"

"Ser Vortimer Crane!" the man answered. "I am Highgarden's master-at-arms. Lord Tyrell sent me to escort your party to Highgarden."

"Very well. Lead ahead." Lyanna's great uncle continued holding the grip of his sword as he rode forth, keeping a vigilant eye on Ser Vortimer. As they rode up to the Mander, Lyanna saw the tiered-walls of Highgarden for the first time. As she rode closer, she caught a glimpse of at least three pleasure boats anchored to the docks of the Mander, a fourth sailing leisurely along.

"Highgarden is beautiful," Lyanna whispered to herself. The looming shadow of Highgarden cloaked over her as she rode closer. Soaking under the radiant sun were vast fields of golden roses, stretched as far as the eye could see. On another more broader path, merchants and traders hurried to and fro, pushing carts and wagons while others held baskets of fresh fruit.

As the small party progressed through the gates of Highgarden under the lead of Ser Vortimer, Lyanna looked around and saw many marble colonnades, groves, fountains and shady courtyards. Ser Vortimer led Lyanna, Mother, Minisa, Great Uncle Brynden and their token of guards to the Great Hall, passing Highgarden's famous briar labyrinth situated between the outer and middle walls. Before the Tyrell guards could open the doors, the wheelhouse slowed to a halt and one of the Tully guards opened the wheelhouse door. Mother stepped out first followed by Minisa, her eyes as wide as platters as she stared at the marble fountain with clear water spouting from what appeared to be a marble fish's mouth. Both Great Uncle Brynden and Lyanna dismounted their steeds as the great oak doors of the Great Hall opened. Mother slowly walked in and Lyanna fell into step behind her, taking hold of Minisa's hand and their great uncle followed them with the guards. Sitting on his large oaken chair on the raised platform was Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach and Warden of the South. Lyanna had seen him from time to time around King's Landing but never paid him much notice at all. Garbed in green silk with a cloth-of-gold cloak clasped with a golden rose brooch, Lord Tyrell puffed his chest proudly and rose, descending the few short steps.

"Your Grace." Lord Tyrell dipped his head as he kissed Mother's hand. "I am so honoured to host you, His Grace and your dear children here in Highgarden for a few days. Highgarden is your home as well as mine."

Mother smiled graciously. "Thank you Lord Tyrell. Highgarden is indeed quite a beautiful sight. I heard rumours of Highgarden's enchanting nature – I am glad I had a chance to come and see it for myself."

Lord Tyrell puffed his chest again as he mumbled thanks. He turned to Lyanna and smiled at her. "My princess. An honour to have you in Highgarden-"

"Still here Mace? That's all you do! Sit, sit and sit! Sitting will get you nowhere! Oaf!" Lyanna spun around and at once spotted a very small and wizened woman tottering towards them with a lacquer brown cane. A couple of the Tully guards shrunk away as if she was afflicted with greyscale. No introductions were needed. Only one woman in the Reach – or in the entire Seven Kingdoms – was capable of frightening (or irritating) an army to its knees.

"Lady Olenna." Mother nodded politely at the snapping old lady. The Queen of Thorns squinted at her for a second before giving her a toothless smile.

"Your Grace," she croaked, her gaunt thin fingers wrapping around her cane. "I have heard so much about you. Ignore my oaf of a son; all he does all day is sit on that chair like an old toad, eating and bumbling like a fool." Lord Tyrell frowned, clearly offended. "Your rooms have been prepared," Lady Olenna continued, "and food and drink will arrive shortly. If you are not too exhausted or weak, will you come for a short walk with me? Maester Lomys had been urging me to walk and enjoy the fresh air more." She smiled again. "Have you seen the gardens yet? I'm sure you will agree they are sweet. Your daughters will be well taken care of, my queen. Margaery's female cousins can give Princess Lyanna a tour of Highgarden and inform her about the wedding festivities while Alerie can keep an eye out on Princess Minisa." Lady Olenna gave Minisa a toothless grin. "Don't worry my lady queen. Princess Minisa will have girls her age to play with. Lady Alysanne Bulwer and Leona Tyrell are both around her age."

"That is kind of you Lady Olenna," said Mother, relieved that Minisa would not be left alone or bored.

A Tyrell maidservant led Lyanna to another door. Lyanna felt a pair of eyes on her and she turned and saw the Queen of Thorns staring at her. "You are a pretty girl," the old lady commented. "Blooming into a ripe maiden eh? Robb Stark is a lucky man to marry you. A very lucky man indeed."

* * *

The pre-wedding feast in Highgarden was almost as grand as a name day feast in King's Landing. Highgarden's Great Hall had transformed into a huge feasting chamber, filled with long trestle tables, a reasonably vast dance floor, a high table and a small space segregated for the minstrels and musicians.

On the dais, Lyanna found herself seated beside Willas Tyrell, the crippled heir of Highgarden. He looked kind and thoughtful. "How have you found Highgarden Princess Lyanna?" he asked.

"Lovely, my lord," Lyanna said truthfully. "Lady Margaery was kind enough to give me a tour of Highgarden herself with her cousins Ladies Elinor and Alla and Lady Desmera Redwyne. Highgarden is so beautiful."

Willas smiled. "Highgarden is considered the centre of chivalry my princess. It is required to be beautiful and enchanting. Has Margaery informed you about the wedding celebrations yet?"

"Lady Margaery mentioned a grand tourney."

"Ah of course. The tourney. My father had boasted it would be more splendid than the tourney at Harrenhal – a foolish notion do you not agree? The Harrenhal tourney was said to be the greatest tourney ever held in the Seven Kingdoms and it lasted ten days. Father wanted our tourney to be held for _twelve_ days but my grandmother ruled it out at once and insisted for it to last seven days at the most. Will your betrothed joust?"

Lyanna glanced down at the table of Northerners where Robb sat with two of his sisters (Lyarra and Arya), his brothers Jon and Bran, his parents, Theon, Dany and Domeric. She was surprised Jon and Daenerys came to Highgarden – natural children don't usually accompany their trueborn half-siblings to tourneys. Then again, her own half-brothers Gendry and Edric were at Highgarden too, the latter keen on watching the melee.

"Princess Lyanna?" Willas prompted.

"My apologies," said Lyanna quickly. "I um, I do not know if Lord Robb will be competing, but if he does, I wish him the best of luck."

Willas nodded. "There will be more events other than the tourney and a melee, my princess," he assured her. "There will be plenty of time for hawking, hunting, riding, trips down the Mander on the pleasure boats and feasting and dancing of course. Seven days of great excitement here in Highgarden."

"That is quite the wedding celebrations my lord." It was as if Margaery Tyrell was wedding a king or prince, not Uncle Renly. "If Lady Margaery's wedding is so magnificent, surely yours will be twice as grand!"

The heir of Highgarden laughed. "Margaery is Father's only daughter and it ah, could be said that she is the apple of his eye. He had great plans for my sister and marriage to the king's brother! That is a tremendous honour."

Lyanna smiled weakly. Arguments exploded between her father and uncles at home regarding Uncle Renly's marriage to Margaery. Uncle Stannis wanted Uncle Renly married to Princess Arianne Martell and Father agreed…only to change his mind a month later. Uncle Stannis's fury and displeasure was written all over his face – Lyanna kept a clear distance from him for days. Family suppers were silent up to the end when another quarrel would be ignited.

"What of yourself my lord?" she inquired. "Will you marry soon?"

"No rush," said Willas pleasantly. "I have two brothers to follow me if I happen to die unmarried and childless. When I marry, I hope to be able to have a quieter wedding. All these festivities…well, I cannot joust."

"I heard you bred the finest hawks, hounds and horses my lord."

"I would not say the finest, my princess, but if you are interested, I'll be more than happy to show them to you tomorrow or the next day."

"I will be delighted my lord. My uncle and Lady Margaery's wedding will be at noon tomorrow I believe?" Willas nodded. "There'll be no more delays," he said flatly. "They both waited long enough. Lord Stannis Baratheon may not be at all pleased with it, but the king has all but demanded it. He even gave Lord Renly the control of Dragonstone."

Lyanna nodded uncomfortably and stared at the range of dishes in front of her. There were pots of soup, suckling pig stuffed with mushrooms, trout and at least a dozen plates of sweet delicacies and including honeycakes, cherry tarts, berry tarts, spiced honey biscuits and her favourite – lemon cakes. As she nibbled on a slice of lemon cake, a light breeze drifted over and caressed her cheek. _Autumn_ , she thought. A childish part of her wished summer would stay forever. She didn't feel ready to embrace winter, let alone a long one. _You will be Lady of Winterfell_ , a voice said in her head. _You will live in the bitter North; you will wake to the icy northern wind stabbing you over and over again. You will wed Robb Stark before autumn too departs. When winter comes, will you face it like a frightened girl of the south or a strong Stark of the North?_

* * *

Lady Margaery Tyrell was a beautiful sight. Standing outside the grand sept of Highgarden, it looked as if she was standing in a shower of gold. She was dressed in a beautiful gown of white silk, cut with a plunging neckline. Her creamy white arms were bare and visible; if she was cold, she concealed it _very_ well. Creeping up and below her waist were lines of silver intricately fashioned into rose vines. When she turned, Lyanna noticed that her gown was backless and from her waist descended a long train of embroidered roses.

Margaery's wavy brown hair was piled high on her head and twisted into an elaborate braid which partially hid the wreath of silver roses that rested on her head. She was the most beautiful bride Lyanna had ever seen. Lyanna herself was decked in dark blue and silver, a pleasant change from the Baratheon colours of black and gold. Lyanna gave Margaery a bright beam and hurried into the sept to be seated at the front with her family.

The Highgarden sept was grand, outdone only by the Starry Sept and the Great Sept of Baelor. Lyanna sat down and glanced around with curiosity. The sept was lined with rows of stained-glass windows depicting the Seven and a man in green with a crown of vines and flowers on his brow. _He must be Garth Greenhand, the High King of the First Men and common ancestor of many Reach houses through his numerous children_. Oddly enough, House Tyrell itself was not descended from Garth Greenhand. Lyanna's eyes returned to the front of the sept. The castle sept was quite like the Great Sept of Baelor in King's Landing with the seven towering gilded statues, the seven altars and the seven broad aisles. The statues were not as tall as the ones in the Great Sept, but they were pretty high.

Uncle Renly paced in front of the altar between the two statues of the Father and Mother, fidgeting with the stag-shaped clasp of his cloak. Cousin Steffon was beside him, carefully holding the marriage cloak. Loras Tyrell walked up to Uncle Renly and murmured something to him. He was handsome, the Knight of Flowers. With long, flowing brown hair and golden eyes, Ser Loras was the most attractive of Lord Mace's sons. Ser Loras turned and flashed Lyanna a charming smile; she felt herself blush furiously as he sat down.

The doors opened and Margaery gracefully walked through the aisle towards Uncle Renly with her father at her side. She looked radiant. _You'll not be wedded in a sept_ , Lyanna reminded herself. _You'll be married in the godswood in the sight of the old gods_. Margaery joined Uncle Renly in front of the septon and the altar, a smile on her face.

"You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection," the stout septon instructed. Uncle Renly swiftly removed Margaery's maiden cloak (one of green silk with an embroidered golden rose) and took the Baratheon cloak from Cousin Steffon, placing it around Margaery's shoulders. He stepped back in place and Margaery's her hand as the septon tied a knot around their hands and said in a loud voice, "Let it be known that Margaery of House Tyrell and Renly of House Baratheon are one heart, one flesh, one soul…" The septon went on in a tedious drone. Lyanna had never remembered a wedding she attended and tried to listen but to no avail. It didn't take long before she began glancing around discreetly. All the seats in the sept were filled. _Did the Tyrells invite all of Westeros?_ Lyanna wondered. She saw Northern lords, Reach lords, Crownlands lords, Vale lords, Storm lords, Western lords and even Prince Oberyn Martell from Dorne who sat near the back, his arms crossed as he stared at the ceiling, obviously bored. She saw no Ironborn, but there was Theon Greyjoy.

"…look upon one another and saw the words."

Lyanna turned her attention back to Uncle Renly and Margaery. She hoped the two of them would be happy together in Dragonstone. She had never been to the former Targaryen seat, but it was said that Dragonstone was cold and prone to a good many days of rain.

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger," her uncle and Lady Margaery recited. "I am hers and she is mine," Uncle Renly said while Margaery said simultaneously. "I am his and he is mine," and together they said, "From this day, until the end of my days." Uncle Renly then announced. "With this kiss, I will pledge my love," and he kissed Margaery. It was a brief kiss before they turned to the audience, broad smiles on their faces. Lyanna clapped with the other guests and stood up as the newly wedded couple slowly began the procession out of the sept to the gardens for the wedding feast.

"Go and sit with Robb Stark," Mother whispered in Lyanna's ear. "It'll be good for you to get to know your future husband's bannermen and their family. Before he died, your grandfather told me that Northerners are aloof and suspicious and wary of those from the south. Do you remember the Northern sigils?"

Lyanna nodded. "I have studied them before we left."

"Very good. Speak to the Reach lords too or they will take offence." The other lords would be offended if she did not converse with them. Lyanna decided that it would be best to dance and talk to all the lords present. When she stood in the gardens, her mouth dropped open. Set carefully on a dozen groaning tables were platters and bowls full of delicious food and beside them flagons of drinks, each a different beverage to another. The feasting tables were sheltered from the sun by huge green canopies etched with a border of golden roses.

As Mother suggested, Lyanna made her way to the Stark table. Theon Greyjoy gave her a questionable look but the others present smiled at her as she greeted them and sat down next to Robb.

"Is Lord Stark not joining us?" said Lyanna politely.

"The king had asked him to dine with him," explained Lyarra, nodding at Lord Stark who looked uncomfortable sitting on the dais beside Father. "Our mother is there too, sitting with the queen."

"Will you be jousting Robb?" said Bran excitedly. "Domeric said that he would and if he wins, he will crown Lyarra his Queen of Love and Beauty." Sitting beside him, Arya rolled her eyes. She wore a simple grey dress and her hair was tied in a Northern-styled braid. There were no sign of embroidery on her gown. "Robb, if you enter the jousting lists, you might win," Bran went on. "Well, Domeric might win, but if you win, you can crown Lyanna the Queen of Love and Beauty – would that not be splendid?"

Wearing a wreath of flowers on her brow was splendid? "There will be many excellent jousters," Lyarra pointed out. "Maybe Domeric and Robb will both lose. I hear Ser Barristan the Bold will be jousting again as will the Blackfish – both of them are strong jousters. Ser Jaime Lannister will definitely be jousting too and I suspect at least half a dozen Tyrells will be participating, probably all keen to be the one to crown their sister or cousin Lady Margaery. Lyanna, who do you think will win the joust?"

"I hope Robb of course." Lyanna beamed at her betrothed. "If not Robb, then I would hope Uncle Renly, but he is not the best jouster, so maybe the Blackfish or Domeric." She thought for a moment. "If Ser Barristan the Bold wins, who do you think he will crown the Queen of Love and Beauty?" The old Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had no sisters or nieces and was too chivalrous to fall in love and break his Kingsguard vows.

"There was talk that he once loved a Dornish lady," spoke Jon.

"Who?" said Lyarra and Robb in unison.

Jon shrugged. "A Dornish bard sang about Ser Barristan the Bold and his lady love. It could be false you know."

"What is the song called?" asked Lyanna, racking her mind for a Dornish song about Ser Barristan.

"Um… _His Lady Love_? I don't remember."

Arya rolled her eyes again. "I'm surprised you listened to it." She poked half a grilled peach suspiciously. "What is this?"

"A grilled peach," Lyanna answered. "It is quite tasty."

"A grilled peach? Why would you grill a peach?" Arya reached for a blackberry tart instead. Robb chortled. He turned to Lyanna. "Will you take offense if I crown another my Queen of Love and Beauty?" he japed.

"Do you have another in mind my lord?" Lyanna teased. "Perhaps you wish to win the jousting tourney and crown Arya your Queen of Love and Beauty!" Arya choked on her blackberry tart as Jon, Bran and Theon guffawed. Lyarra and Dany laughed too, the former more than the latter. "Promise me you will," said Lyanna, grinning from ear to ear. "If you win, crown Arya."

"No!" Arya protested, horrified. "Crown Lyanna!"

"I would crown Arya too," said Domeric thoughtfully, "but people will say that I have fallen in love with my betrothed's younger sister rather than my betrothed. That will not bode well either in the north or the south." Arya sighed in relief to Lyanna's amusement.

"What about you Jon?" Lyanna inquired. "Will you joust too?"

Jon shrugged for the second time. "Jousting can be dangerous," he said flatly. "I suppose I will though…Prince Oberyn expects me too."

Lyanna gave him a curious look. She knew he squired for Oberyn Martell for a year and was knighted for it, but why would he care if Jon jousted or not?

"He gave me tips in jousting," Jon explained. "It will be ungrateful of me not to use them, but I haven't jousted before, like properly jousted, and with Oberyn in the stands watching me…"

"None of us have jousted properly in our lives," said Domeric calmly. "Chances are rare for us Northerners. If Lord Renly was not the king's brother, I doubt we would be invited here. Southroners think us savage – we are not. Other Northern lords will be jousting and participating in the melee too. Greatjon Umber wants to spill southron blood; Lady Maege Mormont wants to prove that not all women are dainty and delicate; and the Karstarks are eager for this. I will joust and if I by chance win, the tourney at Highgarden will have a beautiful Northern maiden as their Queen of Love and Beauty."

"You will be one of us soon," said Robb, smiling at Lyanna. "Once we wed, you will be Lady Lyanna…" His smile became more strained. "Stark."

* * *

 **I planned to upload the chapter last week, but I grew frazzled and unsure about the direction this story was heading. Yes, the moment I uploaded the last chapter of Part 2, I realised that Ashara in Dorne for 2 years wasn't so great as I thought it was when I wrote it. I've already told some of you, but I kind of left Ashara in Dorne for 2 years because I wanted her to be there for Edric's wedding and it would take a few months for her to go back to Winterfell and then return to Dorne again. I'll try and fix this the best I can throughout Part 3. Yes, I know Stannis broke Renly's betrothal to Margaery and now you just read about Renly's wedding to her, but be patient :D This time there's a good reason for that and you'll find out soon! :)**


	54. Ashara VII

When Ashara saw her elder children again, she had not imagined they would meet in Highgarden. Robb had looked more like Ned, Lyarra more beautiful, Bran was much taller and Arya…she had not changed much at all.

Ashara was slightly surprised when she saw Daenerys there. _She is still a girl_ , she decided. _Targaryen or no, she is still a girl and like all girls, she will no doubt want to witness a tourney before returning to Winterfell where tourneys rarely occurred_. She almost frowned. Daenerys was no longer a child; Ned would have to find a suitable match for her and soon. It would have been safer to wed her off to Jon, but as he too was part Targaryen…

"Mother!" said Lyarra, running up to her in delight. Ashara embraced her. It'd been years since she hugged her daughter. She released her and Arya jumped in her arms like she did when she was a little girl. The others walked up to them, all smiling and grinning. Jon was already there and observed the wedding – Ashara had elected to travel to Highgarden with the Dondarrions. She sensed the ride to Highgarden would be the last she would see her sister. Allyria was no longer the little girl she once was; she was a mother and a wife, the Lady of Blackhaven. She was needed at Blackhaven, Ashara at Winterfell. As each year rolled away like a tide, Ashara had delayed her return to Winterfell. Why? She did not know. She'd spent two years in Dorne instead of a few months. Of course she missed Ned and their children, but something…something pulled her closer to Dorne.

"Children," said Ashara with a smile. "Meet your aunt, Lady Allyria Dondarrion. None of you but Jon have met her yet."

"Lady Dondarrion," her sons and daughters chorused together.

"Where is Gwenysse?" asked Lyarra.

"Prince Doran and I thought it would be better if she stayed in Dorne," Ashara answered. "Gwenysse had settled in Dorne and if we took her here, I doubt she'd be willing to return south after she sees you." She caught sight of Bran gaping at Beric Dondarrion. "Bran, what is it?"

"You are the Lightning Lord!" Bran said excitedly, his eyes widening to the size of dishes. "You almost won the jousting tournament at King's Landing but lost to Thoros of Myr who was then defeated by Ser Jaime Lannister!" Ashara bit her lip to suppress a rising giggle. The Lord of Blackhaven had lost more tourneys than he had won, yet he still enjoyed participating in them. Ashara was not surprised that Lord Beric went to King's Landing for a jousting tourney, but was astonished at Bran's reaction. Surely Thoros of Myr would be more memorable in a jousting tournament or a melee than Beric Dondarrion! The red priest Thoros of Myr was well-known for winning many melees using his favourite weapon, a plain sword set aflame with wildfire.

Beric Dondarrion smiled dryly. "That was not one of my finest moments eh? I hear you are squiring for Ser Barristan the Bold! That must be exciting."

"It is!" As Bran continued chattering away, Ashara turned to the boys. "Ser Jon Snow," she stated, smiling at Jon. "How did you get here so fast?"

"A good stallion," Jon answered. "Along with knighting me, Prince Oberyn gave me a Dornish sand steed. I tried to refuse him, but he insisted. He said something about having too many horses and not enough riders."

"Prince Oberyn is a very generous man Jon. Have you thought about changing your last name?"

Jon shook his head slowly "There's only one name I desire."

 _Stark_.

"Father can ask the king to legitimise Jon can't he?" inquired Robb as Ashara headed towards Renly and Margaery. "Father and King Robert are good friends – it is only a small favour to ask."

Ashara stopped. " _Small_ favour?" she said quizzically. "Robb, acknowledging a natural child is one matter, but legitimising him? Have you not considered what the impact could be on you?"

"No…"

"Jon is older than you. If the king legitimises him, do you not think Jon might consider himself the rightful Lord of Winterfell due to his age? He is indeed your father's eldest son but he bears the last name of Snow. Besides, your father loves Jon – if there was not a problem, don't you think he would have already implored King Robert to legitimise Jon?"

"Why didn't he?" Robb pressed.

Ashara sighed uncomfortably. "Not now Robb. We are at a _wedding_ , not having supper at Winterfell." Robb nodded and said impassively, "Yes Mother." Ashara smiled at him. For a split second, she wondered if he would foolishly ask the king to legitimise Jon as a wedding gift. From what she heard, Robert already thought Robb his own good-son.

"Is that _Walder Frey?_ "

Distracted, Ashara glanced to where Theon had pointed to. By the Seven, the ancient Lord of the Crossing was actually invited to the wedding at Highgarden – why would the new Lord of Dragonstone and his Reach bride do so? The weasel-faced Lord Frey sat with his army of sons and daughters on either side of him, his weaselly face marked with the smuggest grin Ashara had ever glimpsed. _The only reason he would smile that smugly is if one of his offspring is engaged to a Tyrell_ , thought Ashara as she hurried past him.

"Lady Stark!" said Renly pleasantly as she approached him and Margaery. "I'm delighted you are here! You know my bride, Lady Margaery?"

"Of course," answered Ashara. Who had not heard of the beautiful Margaery of Highgarden? "I hope the both of you will be happy."

"We will," said Margaery, flashing her a beam. "I have been betrothed to Lord Renly since I was a child – I am glad we finally wed. Last year, I wept with dismay when Lord Stannis broke my betrothal with Lord Renly. Even now I pray thanks to our good king for reinstating our engagement."

It was odd that Robert Baratheon insisted for Renly to marry Margaery; it was even odder that after all those years he finally relented to Lord Mace's demands and give Renly Dragonstone. Apparently the Fat Flower requested Storm's End for his now good-son – it was met with such uproar by both the elder Baratheon brothers and Tywin Lannister. Ashara could not help but wonder if it was one of the rare times both Stannis and Robert agreed on anything.

"Will you leave for Dragonstone after this?" asked Ashara.

Renly wrinkled his nose. "Oh by the gods no, Lady Stark. Why would I take my lovely wife to that dull and wet place?"

Ashara frowned. "Lord Renly…you _are_ the Lord of Dragonstone."

Renly shrugged. "I am needed at King's Landing by my kingly brother's side. I will have Ser Loras escort my men to Dragonstone though."

"New men?" Ashara was lost. Surely Lord Stannis would have installed many good men at Dragonstone. "Lord Renly, forgive me, but when your brother Lord Stannis was Lord Protector of Dragonstone, I am certain he would have placed an army of loyal Baratheon men there. Last I heard, he sent his old maester there as castellan or something." Lady Margaery's brown eyes widened in horror. "Do you not think that cruel, Lady Stark?"

"Cruel, Lady Baratheon?"

"Lady Stark!" Margaery looked shocked. "Lord Stannis is cruel for sending his old maester to Dragonstone! Dragonstone is often rainy and must be horrible for the old man's health." She turned to her husband. "Lord husband, please assure me you will take good care of the old maester. Please send him to the Citadel for a full recovery, my lord, if it isn't too late. Request a more fit maester."

Renly nodded. "I intend to," he assured her. "Maester Cressen taught me when I was a boy; it was indeed wicked of Stannis to send him to Dragonstone. Before we leave for King's Landing, let us visit the rest of the Reach together. Ser Loras can accompany us."

Ashara bit her tongue as Margaery cooed something sweet in response. "Again I offer my congratulations," said Ashara hastily. She quickly walked away. A smile broadened on her face as Queen Catelyn gestured for her to sit on the empty seat beside her. "Ashara," said Catelyn warmly. "Good to see you again. Why is it that you hide from me either in the North or in Dorne?"

"Catelyn," said Ashara, sitting down. "Good to see you again. It had been quite some time since we last met. Seeing you is so different from reading your letters do you not agree?"

"Indeed. You are well?"

"Quite. You? If you do not mind me saying Ashara, you look very well – almost as if you are glowing in good health."

Ashara blushed. "Thank you my queen. I must have spent more time in the sun than I thought." She studied the Tully queen swiftly. Catelyn Tully Baratheon was as beautiful as she was the last time they'd met. Slightly older of course, but with the same bright blue eyes and abundant locks of auburn hair. Today, her hair was clipped back with a silver trout pin. On her head nestled a simple silver circlet. It was surprising as Catelyn did not like wearing crowns.

"You are wearing a crown," Ashara commented.

Catelyn touched the silver circlet on her head. "It was a gift from Edmure. He'd said that I should wear a crown more often and what better time than now? Look at the rope of emeralds around Lady Margaery's neck!" She shuddered. "I would not wear that. The size of those emeralds! The necklace Robert gave me – the one with the onyxes – was half the size of Lady Margaery's. I do worry Lady Margaery will grow ill at Dragonstone."

"She has no desire to go there Catelyn."

"Oh? She is the Lady of Dragonstone!"

"Indeed, but it seems the Lady Margaery and Lord Renly have other ideas like touring the rest of the Reach." She hesitated. "Catelyn, I know it is not my place to ask, but why did the king finally give Lord Renly Dragonstone? Why did he break Renly's betrothal to Arianne Martell and reengage him to Lady Margaery Tyrell? Forgive me my queen, but he couldn't have done that just to irritate Stannis." _Did I speak out of place?_ Ashara wondered as Catelyn pursed her lips. Catelyn rarely pursed her lips – unless King Robert's bastards were present.

"My good-brother never forgave the Tyrells for their role in Robert's rebellion all those years ago," Catelyn said quietly. "Robert forgives and forgets; Stannis is one of the few who will never forgive and forget. It is wise of Lord Stannis to ally our House with the Martells of Dorne – now Robert made two enemies: the Martells and his brother and Hand."

"Why?"

"Robert did not tell me Ashara. When I asked, he said that I shouldn't concern myself with it. He said what he did was for the good of the realm. I honestly don't see how Renly and Margaery's wedding is good for the realm."

"I see. It is very odd though. I do feel sorry for Renly. He was first betrothed to Margaery, then Arianne, and now he married Margaery!"

"That happens Ashara. I was betrothed to Brandon Stark and ended up being queen by marrying Robert."

"Why Dragonstone?" Ashara pressed. "That was the seat of the Targaryen heir. Some would say it is a sign the king wishes to favour Renly and his descendants over Stannis and his progeny."

Catelyn paled. "By the Seven, I haven't considered that. Robert should've given Renly the Rainwood as he said he would. Ser Davos would have been more than satisfied with his knighthood and keep. By the gods, what has my husband done to the realm?" She and Ashara glanced at Robert Baratheon, who was snickering at a jape Renly uttered. He didn't seem at all concerned. _This wedding seems to be for the worse of the realm, not the good_.

"It is too late to deprive Renly of his new lordship," said Catelyn grimly. "It will cause too much uproar. I suppose all we can do is enjoy the wedding and worry about the consequences later, or not at all."

"There will be a joust I hear."

"Yes, that was what all the young knights talked about all day. I heard there'll be grand prizes for the victors of the archery contest, the joust, the melee and uh, the hammer throwing competition."

" _Hammer throwing?_ "

"A new game Renly invented with Ser Loras I believe. It seems all you have to do is throw a hammer and the one who throws it the furthest wins. It seems that Lord Tyrell plans to outdo the tourney at Harrenhal." A knot formed in Ashara's stomach. "It would be too similar if Margaery is Queen of Love and Beauty at the beginning of the jousting tourney do you not agree?"

Ashara nodded, a lump forming in her throat. She had not thought about that fateful tourney in years – since Robb's third name day in fact. Why would she? It was in the past…

"It'll be much harder to oust Lady Margaery from that position," Ashara heard herself say. "There are plenty more Tyrells willing to fight for their lady's honour, and there is Renly of course."

"Lord Whent's daughter had the White Bull and he lost."

"True, but Lady Margaery has Ser Loras, the Knight of Flowers and Ser Garlan the Gallant, both excellent jousters. Will your uncle joust again? I remember once – in honour of Lyanna's name day I believe – he crowned you the Queen of Love and Beauty. It would be delightful if you are crowned again."

"I think my uncle plans to compete in the melee this time as well. Will there be any Northerners jousting? I am eager to see if their will be a Northern victor. You have not been to Lannisport have you Ashara? The Lannisters had held a tourney there once and your Lord of Bear Island won – Ser Jorah wasn't it?"

"One of the rare tourney victors from the North." Ashara smiled. "There hadn't been a tourney in the North for decades and I'm certain there are plenty of young and old Northerners itching to joust or participate in the melee. I know Domeric intends to joust as does Robb, Theon and perhaps Jon. Theon might participate in the archery contest as he is a fine archer. I know Lady Mormont will be wielding her spiked mace in the melee as will Greatjon Umber and his huge broadsword. I suspect many others will compete too." She suppressed a chilling shiver. With all these lords from the different regions of Westeros here at Highgarden…it almost felt like the tourney at Harrenhal all over again.

"I have kept you long enough," Catelyn said suddenly. "How selfish of me. You should go and talk to your husband. Have you seen him yet?"

Ashara shook her head guiltily.

"Go," Catelyn urged. "You have more too speak about to your husband than I do to you. Go!" Ashara nodded and hurried to her husband who was absorbed in a conversation with the king.

"Lady Stark!" King Robert said jovially, noticing her at once. "You are here at last! Have you eaten yet?"

"A little Your Grace," answered Ashara.

"The food here are delicious, do you not agree? The Tyrells know how to host a grand feast, eh? Splendid!" He reached for his cup that was filled to the rim with Arbor gold. Ned cleared his throat and stared at the wine goblet pointedly. "Eh? Cat does not need to know," Robert sniggered. "This is a wedding! Be merry Ned! Can't a man drink at a wedding? Sit down Lady Stark, sit down. You and Ned have much to discuss."

Ned smiled as Ashara sat on the empty chair beside him. "At last," he stated. "I wondered if you would miss the wedding feast."

"It seemed I arrived just in time."

"How is Lady Dondarrion? Is she well?"

"Very. Happier now that she is a mother I believe."

Ned nodded uncomfortably. "What is it?" said Ashara, noticing it at once. Ned was never good at keeping secrets…well, apart from the one about Jon.

"My lords are not pleased at you," Ned muttered. "Two years in Dorne…there were rumours that you planned not to return. It is false, I know, but a few of my bannermen have voiced their ah, concerns." No doubt the Greatjon was one. "I do know how difficult it was in your position," Ned went on. "Edric was still a boy at the time of his father's death and as the eldest Dayne of Starfall, it was your duty to aid him and settle affairs at Dorne. That I understand. You also wanted to be a part of your sister's wedding, that too is usual. My lords grew…restless with their Lady of Winterfell at Dorne. Some wanted me to demand for you to return. That I would never do Ashara.

"What I do not understand is what the Martells wanted. Lord Umber was most offended at the prospect of Gwenysse being fostered at Dorne, but by then, it was far too late to end negotiations."

"You have every right to be angry Ned. I did not plan to stay at Dorne for two years, but something…something kept me from leaving."

"What was it?"

Ashara bit her lip. "I cannot explain it Ned. It was just…I was afraid of leaving Starfall with Edric still Lord Dondarrion's squire. When I left as your wife, Edric was not yet born and my brother was the lord. Now it is Edric and he is just a boy. There is always the threat of the Daynes of High Hermitage launching an attack at Starfall – they always wanted Starfall."

"Why did you not say that earlier?" Ned questioned. "You could have written me a letter about it! If you did, Lady Dustin would not be saying that you were no longer faithful to me and sleeping with other men at Dorne."

Ashara's mouth dropped open. " _What?_ "

Ned shrugged. "We all assume the worst of each region. Southroners think we of the North are savage; we think southroners have no bone for winter; those of the Iron Islanders are seen as rapists and thieves; the Dornish are viewed as the bane of the Seven; and Reachmen are seen as flatterers. It happens."

"I…I did not sleep with other men!"

Ned looked faintly amused. " _Two years_ Ashara…"

"Two years I remained faithful," said Ashara fiercely. "I would do anything for those of my blood and you would too, I know you would. Was what I did wrong? Edric and Allyria needed me and with our brothers both dead! Every day I was at Dorne, I missed you, the children, Winterfell… _every day_ Ned! I am not a Tully, but family will always come first to me. _Always_. It killed me not to bring Gwenysse to the wedding but I held firm. I still hate myself for it. Ned, I know I have a duty at Winterfell to you, the North and our children, but I am as much a Dayne as I am a Stark. I am the first from Dorne to wed into a Northern house – do you not think it cruel for me to remain at Winterfell without seeing my sister and nephew once in a while? Previous Ladies of Winterfell have all been Northern or from the Vale. Their homes were all close. Mine? So far away Ned, so far away. You Northerners are all about loyalty and family to survive the winter – how in the Seven's name can they blame me for missing my family?"

"It is difficult," agreed Ned. "We are _married_ , Ashara. Why did you not tell me that you missed your family so much?"

"I didn't know I missed them so much…until I was at Dorne."

"My lord bannermen will forgive you – in time. Some are still displeased that Gwenysse is Doran Martell's ward. Greatjon Umber complained that when she is older, she will be more Dornish than Northern." Alarm tingled in Ashara's mind. It was instantly quashed when Ned grinned.

"Do you know why King Robert gave Renly Dragonstone?" said Ashara, swiftly changing the subject. Ned frowned. "I did wonder about it," he admitted. "It does not make sense, but I will find out. It might not be anything but a foolish decision on Robert's part. Did the queen say anything?"

Before Ashara was able to respond, Renly and Margaery both stood up. "Your Graces, my lords and ladies," Margaery announced, "I am pleased to declare that the tournament will begin this afternoon! Competitors, please ready yourself for the melee and the archery contest; the jousting tourney" – she paused for what appeared to be dramatic effect – "will begin tomorrow morning."

* * *

 **What do you think of the Season 6 finale last week? :D There will be a Ned chapter shortly (the next chapter is in Daenerys' POV) and I'm aiming to wrap up Highgarden by Chapter LV. I'm trying not to have too many time jumps these days haha. For those of you who are hunting for stories to read, I highly recommend _Our Blades Are Sharp_ written by Spectre4Hire and _Glory For Traitors_ written by Eduardo Aranha :) Both are excellent ongoing stories I would definitely read a second or third time. **


	55. Daenerys III

Dany often felt shy around strangers. Would they judge her with contempt or pity for being a bastard? Being a guest at Highgarden seemed like a dream – how often would a Northern girl (or a bastard) have a chance to be entertained at the most beautiful castle in all of the Seven Kingdoms?

Since the moment she arrived at Highgarden, she felt like she was living in one of the songs sung by the a bard. Reach food and drink were delicious; the endless songs were beautiful; and the vibrant sun! There was nothing more she enjoyed than sitting in one of Highgarden's many gardens and soaking in the warmth and the golden glow of the sun. Technically Dany had only been at Highgarden for not more than a day, but she felt as if she could live there forever.

The pre-wedding feast _and_ the wedding feast were both magnificent and she even glimpsed some of the hundred wedding gifts Lord Renly and Lady Margaery received in the morning. Apparently it was a Reach tradition for the prospective husband and wife to break their fast together in the Great Hall on the morning of their wedding day and accept their bridal gifts. Daenerys found it a little strange but it seemed splendid.

If the feasting wasn't enough, there was the tournament in the afternoon. The jousting tourney was scheduled for the next day but Dany witnessed the first half of the melee and the end of the archery contest. Even though she found Theon a little unsettling with his coy smiles and smirks, she was impressed with his skills with the bow and was pleased he came third, losing only to Ser Balon Swann and Anguy, a commoner from the Dornish Marches. Anguy walked away with a pouch of ten thousand golden dragons; Theon seemed quite smug with his winnings of a thousand golden dragons.

If that was not all, there was another feast in the evening and Daenerys greatly enjoyed watching Lyarra and the other noble girls dance from her table with Jon and Arya, both of whom refused to dance. Dany felt a tiny jab of jealousy as she'd saw Lyarra dance the night away, dancing with North lords, heirs in Dorne, Vale knights and even a few squires and hedge knights. She wished she was dancing the night away – who would dance with a bastard?

Dany thought that after the last feast that day all the excitement would finally die away; it augmented when she was led to the guest chamber. It appeared that the Tyrells had a whole wing in Highgarden filled with guest rooms and each and every one of them were large and spacious.

For an autumn night, it was pretty warm and Daenerys slept comfortably on a huge bed big enough to fit two people. When morning came, Dany found herself too comfortable to move. _Winterfell hardly has warm days anymore_ , she thought lazily. She spluttered with surprise as Lyarra threw an embroidered pillow at her. For the duration of their stay at Highgarden, it was decided that Dany, Arya and Lyarra would share a room while the boys shared one too, except Bran who was to have a chamber closer to the royal family as he was the king's ward.

"Really?" said Daenerys, shaking her mane of silver-blonde hair as she threw a pillow back at her. "Throwing pillows? That is more Arya's style!" She glanced at the messy, unmade bed across the room. "Where is Arya?"

"Out exploring Highgarden," Lyarra answered, smirking at her. "She was up at dawn and running around in her um, water dancing attire. I am astonished Septa Mordane said nothing when she supervised the packing! I think she'd muttered something about catching cats?"

Dany laughed. "She was catching cats at Winterfell! What does mastering that particular skill have to do with water dancing anyway?"

Lyarra shrugged. She sat down on the edge of her bed and began combing her hair. She was already dressed – wasn't the tourney later in the morning? "Queen Catelyn invited me to break my fast with her, her daughters and her nieces," she informed her. "Lady Margaery will be there too."

"Oh." Dany could not help but feel slightly disappointed. What an honour to be invited to dine with the royal family! Whenever there were guests at Winterfell, she and Jon were whisked to one of the lower tables. The only time they sat with the rest of their family at the high table was on a usual day with no guests. "What about the boys?" The thought of breakfasting alone was daunting.

Lyarra thought for a moment. "Robb, Domeric and Bran will be breaking their fast with the king. I think Theon is still in that tavern he went to last night to ah, celebrate his victory. I'm not so sure about Jon."

"Does it feel odd with your direwolves still at Winterfell?"

"A little. I thought I would miss their howls at night, but last night, I swear that I heard minstrels sing. It was so…soothing. The Tyrells truly know how to host a wedding festival do they not? Three feasts yesterday and more today and in the next few days! More dancing and then there is this tourney!" Lyarra shone with excitement. "Oh there is so much to do!"

Dany nodded in agreement. She could not wait to board a pleasure boat with her cousins soon. "You look lovely," she complimented. "It is clever of you to sew dresses more suited to the Reach climate." Lyarra flushed with delight. "Is it a bit too much?" she asked worriedly. Lyarra had elected to wear a sleeveless purple gown with a light grey skirt and bodice ornamented with purple swirls and tiny flowers and a silvery-grey belt around her waist. She looked wonderful.

"You look beautiful," said Daenerys honestly. "How are you not cold?" Lyarra's bare arms were as white as snow. Well, her skin looked paler than usual.

"It is so warm here. You should go to breakfast now if you plan to find a good seat in the stands for the tourney. I'll see you there!" She rushed out, humming a cheerful tune to herself. Dany sighed and reluctantly pulled herself out of bed. If she was able to move faster, she might be able to catch a few of the Starks in the hallway before they went their separate ways.

Dany grabbed her lavender purple dress from her wooden chest and hurriedly changed out of her nightgown. After brushing her hair hurriedly, she rushed out her room, almost crashing into Robb.

"Slow down," laughed Robb. "Why are you in such a rush Dany?"

 _To find you before you break your fast with the king_. "The sun is shining," she said simply. "The sun does not shine as much at Winterfell."

"There is no need to run," said Robb, still smiling at her. "The sun wouldn't be going anywhere. I suppose you have not eaten breakfast?"

"Not yet. Have you?"

"No. The king expects me to breakfast with him and his family."

"You will eat with the queen and the princes and princesses too?" At least he'd be with Lyarra if that was the case. Robb nodded. "Walk with me," he invited. "It had been some time since we had some time…alone."

Daenerys blushed. "Well we have been mostly travelling and people would be talking if they see us spend more time with each other than normal."

"That is quite true." Robb glanced around. No one else was around – very odd considering how many guests there were at Highgarden. "Theon did quite well in the archery contest did he not?" He chuckled. "Oh, but you should have seen their faces when Lady Mormont won the melee! It seemed Thoros of Myr would claim victory and the twenty thousand golden dragons, but Lady Mormont snatched it from him with her spiked mace! Ha!"

"Will you participate in the joust today?"

"Yes! I did not come here to watch the joust! I intend to joust!" He sounded so enthusiastic. "Will you be watching?"

"Of course." Dany smiled at him. Her heart fluttered as he grinned back. "Who would you crown your Queen of Love and Beauty?" she asked. "Lyanna or Arya? The southroners would be offended if you crown Arya, but at least we would get the joy of seeing Arya's horrified face."

Robb laughed again. "I would crown you," he said so softly Dany thought she'd misheard him. "I would crown you," he repeated. "Over the last year…" He shook his head. "No. I cannot tell you this now."

"What is it?"

Robb glanced around a second time. "It is you I want," he said quietly. "We've grown up together since we were in our cradles – of course it is you who I want. I write letters to Lyanna and she writes back; I feel I still don't know her as well as I should and we are to be wed like by the end of the year. I like her as a sister or a friend, but you…"

"No," Daenerys heard herself murmur. "This is not right Robb. We are cousins, remember? It is not right…"

Robb sighed gloomily. "My grandfather married his cousin," he pointed out. "It happens. Lord Tywin's late wife was his cousin too."

 _Over the last year I grew close to you too_ , Dany wanted to declare. Instead, she shook her head. Robb was not the man for her. Falling in love with him shouldn't even happen! He was betrothed to Princess Lyanna and that was the end of it. It was not so long ago when she liked Robb as a brother – why could she not think him that way still? "There is nothing we can do," Dany said finally. "You will soon marry a princess and I am a bastard. Once I'd considered becoming a septa – that was before Septa Mordane came to Winterfell of course."

"Septa Daenerys," said Robb with a smile. "At least you did not consider being a Silent Sister. Imagine becoming the Stranger's wife." He shuddered, "or death's handmaid, whichever you prefer." He looked concerned. "What do you plan to do this morning apart from eating?"

Daenerys shrugged. "Walk around I suppose." She bade farewell to Robb and wandered to the Great Hall. Ignoring the stares and whispers of the many nobles there, she found an empty table and sat down. She reached across the table for a slice of white bread. She was not particularly hungry.

Staring at the piece of bread reminded her of that unusually warm morning at Winterfell about a year ago. Jon had left for Dorne and Daenerys was in no mood to remain in a stuffy room to sew. It had been her second time avoiding a sewing session – Septa Mordane would assume she was on the wild path frequented by Arya. That morning she hid in the empty godswood with a pad of paper and a box of pencils. She'd been suddenly inspired to draw and the first person she yearned to sketch was Jon.

She vividly remembered his long, solemn face, his lean build, his curls of dark brown hair and beautiful eyes so dark they bordered on black. When she closed her eyes, she pictured him perfectly. The final result on her parchment? A bunch of lines and scribbles. Her first attempt was futile; the second horrible; and Dany was on the point of giving up when Robb found her. "You miss him too," he said quietly after glancing at one of her unsuccessful drawings of Jon. "We all do. He'll be back soon. He'll be here before we know it." How in the name of the old gods did a poor drawing of Jon led to her falling in love with Robb?

"Dany, do you plan to stare at that or do you intend to eat it?"

Daenerys blinked. Jon was across from her, gazing at her patiently. "Oh." Dany blinked again. "I…I was deciding whether to…whether to eat it with bacon or um, jam." She hastily reached for a pot of jam, almost spilling the flagon of milk in the process. She felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment.

"There's no rush," said Jon, lathering butter onto his slice of bread. He placed a thick piece of salty ham on top and bit in. "The jam is not going anywhere."

"You caught me by surprise," responded Daenerys. "I didn't hear you sit down for breakfast." _Or see you either_.

"You were distracted by your breakfast." Jon cracked a smile.

"I suppose I was," agreed Dany with a quiet laugh. "Who knew a piece of bread could be so distracting?" Jon snorted. They both ate and drank quietly, watching more guests trickle into the Highgarden Great Hall. After about ten minutes, Lord Renly and Lady Margaery entered, broad smiles on their faces. Having no desire to hear about their successful wedding night, Daenerys asked Jon, "Did anything exciting happen at Dorne? I read your letters and it sounded wonderful – how do you feel as a knight?"

Jon chewed on his bread and bacon thoughtfully. "There are so many stories I can tell you Daenerys."

"Tell me one please."

"Prince Oberyn and I travelled to the Tower of Joy on the way here."

"The Tower of Joy?" Dany frowned. Why did that sound so familiar?

Jon nodded. "Father's sister died there. Oberyn asked if I wanted to retrace my father's footsteps in Dorne – it was awfully kind of him. We went to Starfall and I saw Dawn." His eyes shone brightly. "You should have seen it Dany! Only Swords of the Morning can ever wield it." He lowered his voice. "I tried to find out if there was anything said about you, but the servants there were not talkative. At times they would speak about the late Lord Dayne, but they never mentioned you. They only spoke about his tragic death."

"Nothing at all?"

"Nothing. If Lord Dayne wanted to keep you a secret, he did it well. We didn't stay at Starfall for long though. We then rode to the Tower of Joy and the prince told me the story. It was a sad tale."

"Uncle Eddard found his sister there did he not?"

Jon nodded. "She died there too. If she was alive, she would be queen. Robert Baratheon would have married her, even if she was…ruined."

"He must have truly loved her."

"A war in the south over a Northern maiden. You Northern ladies do have an, ah, certain appeal about you." He smiled as Dany blushed. It was sweet of him to consider her a Northerner. She was raised in the North but bore the bastard last name of Sand yet she never set foot in sunny Dorne in her life.

"I do not look too southron?" jested Dany.

"If I could choose a wife, I would choose you Dany." She almost choked on her bread. If he told her this last year she would have been thrilled…but now? "Lord Tyrell commented that this year is the year of weddings," Jon continued, handing her a goblet of diluted ale. "I agree with him. Robb will wed, Lyarra will wed, the crown prince will wed…why can't we too? We are both bastards and once we are married, we can go anywhere we like. We can find your mother too."

Daenerys stared at him, wide-eyed. By the old gods and new…he wasn't drunk or japing. Once not long ago she would agree enthusiastically; how could she tell him she was head-over-heels in love with Robb?

* * *

Dany's stomach twisted into knots as she sat down next to Arya in the stands. She had looked forward to the tourney but after Jon's spontaneous declaration of marriage…she felt a little ill.

"Do you think I can compete in a joust one day?" Arya asked. Dany frowned. "I don't think girls are allowed to compete."

"There isn't a rule that says women cannot. Lady Mormont participated in the melee yesterday and no one said anything about it." No doubt those who wanted to were too intimidated by Lady Mormont's spiked mace to squeak a word. "I can always compete as a mystery knight," Arya went on. "There's always one mystery knight in a joust and I don't see why I cannot be the mystery knight."

Daenerys looked at her. "Do you not think you are too young?"

Arya rolled her eyes. "Not _now_ , stupid. Maybe in a few years' time. I'm already good at riding horses and Syrio said that I've improved in water dancing. Maybe one day he can teach me how to joust."

"Maybe." Dany glanced around. "Where are the others?"

"Over there." Arya pointed in the direction of the royal stands. Daenerys felt a pang of envy as she saw Lyarra, Bran and even Uncle Eddard and Aunt Ashara sit with the royal family, Lord and Lady Tyrell, Lady Margaery and Lady Olenna, the Dowager Lady of Highgarden. There was another man with them. He was garbed in Tyrell colours and Dany guessed he must be Lord Tyrell's crippled heir. "Why are you not with them?" she inquired to Arya.

"I don't want to," came the swift and blunt response. "If I sit over there, I have to be a proper lady like Lyarra. I cannot be myself. I heard Father tell Mother that the king wished Lyarra was able to marry Prince Orys as well as Robb marrying Lyanna. Why do you think I'm avoiding the king? I don't want to sit over there in case the king remembers I am a Stark and insists I marry one of the princes." She shuddered. "That would be horrible. No more water dancing lessons with Syrio, no more riding alone and more sewing lessons. Ugh!" Daenerys couldn't help but smile. Arya would always be Arya.

"Robb is competing first," Dany murmured as she saw Robb ride towards the royal stands on the red steed Lady Dustin gifted him when he was born. He was in simple and plain armour; Northerners didn't believe in wearing fancy armour according to Uncle Eddard. A snow white cloak emblazoned with a grey direwolf clasped together by a grey direwolf head pin billowed behind him as he rode to the royal stands. Daenerys couldn't help but smile. From her seat she wasn't able to catch a glimpse of the grey direwolf head pin she gave him as a name day gift, but she knew he would wear it – he promised after all.

Princess Lyanna rose, smiling, and slightly leant forward, tying a long golden ribbon around Robb's arm. Envy prickled Dany's heart. _You have given him your favour too_ , she consoled herself. The pin…that is your favour to him. To distract herself, she looked at Robb's opponent. He too was in simple and plain armour, a set even more ragged than Robb's. Daenerys squinted at him and caught sight of his old shield. The paint on it had peeled away but there was still enough to show the two blue towers united by a bridge on a silver-grey field.

Robb's opponent was a Frey.

Beside her, Arya snorted. "A Frey. I heard one of the Tyrells say that knocking down Freys in a tourney is like stomping out weeds."

"That is a little rude," said Dany, who could not resist a smile.

Arya shrugged. "Freys are pests."

"Arya!"

"That's what all the lords say! Early this morning, I went exploring and hoped to catch cats like I did at home. I was chasing after this fat striped cat when I um, overheard a few conversations, mostly about the Freys."

"Arya! What would your parents say about eavesdropping?"

Arya sniggered. Daenerys shook her head and with a sigh, settled to watch the joust. Robb and his Frey opponent galloped towards each other. Dany wanted to shut her eyes; it was Robb's first joust. What if he-? Her fears crumbled as Robb's lance struck the Frey knight in the chest. The Frey knight was almost unhorsed – he managed to remain on his brown destrier. He and Robb rode across the field again. This time the Frey knight struck a blow at Robb's helm whilst Robb jabbed his lance at his old shield, significantly denting it. Dany's heart thumped loudly as she watched them gallop against each other a third time. She glanced around and noticed the crowd was growing restless.

"A Frey and a Northern boy," a knight with large ears grumbled to another – a friend? "What a poor start to the tourney!" Once the words left his mouth, Robb's steed thundered across the field and as if blessed by sudden strength, he struck his jousting lance straight at the Frey knight's chest, taking him by surprise. The crowd of commoners opposite Dany roared with cheers and applause as the Frey stumbled off his horse. Robb lifted his visor and grinned as he slowed down to a trot. He nodded at the commoners before he turned to the nobles. Daenerys tried to hide her smile as she felt his gaze upon her. It only lasted the tiniest of seconds before he urged his horse to trot to the royal stands; it was enough.

 _He will win_ , Daenerys thought confidently as she clapped loudly. _Robb will win_. Robb would crown Princess Lyanna his Queen of Love and Beauty as expected of him, but she knew deep inside that if there were no conventions, it would be she who would be Robb's Queen of Love and Beauty. Dany bit her lip as Jon appeared in her mind, brooding and serious as ever.

"What is it?" asked Arya, noticing her uncertain expression.

"Nothing," said Dany faintly. "Nothing at all."

* * *

 **Yeah, I know it's pretty sudden with Daenerys falling in love with Robb and all that but I'm planning to show the months they grew closer to each other through flashbacks in the next Daenerys and Robb chapters. I definitely plan on writing a Theon and an Arya chapter later on :) I know it seems a bit like I've changed directions in the course of the story and I admit that what I planned for this story seems to be slightly veering of course. This was the first fanfiction/story in general I planned and I guess I enjoyed the planning stage a little too much and went overboard (that'll make sense later if it seems to be going all over the place). I hope the story would stay on a more steady path now.**

 **For those who are interested, I've posted the first chapter of _Family, Duty, Honour_ , a new story I've been plotting and writing over the last few days :) **


	56. Theon II

What a day…and what a night! The heir of Pyke stretched his arms and legs as he yawned like a lazy cat. With a slight grumble as the sun shook him awake with its long golden arms, Theon grudgingly left his bed.

On the road to Highgarden, he had feared the Reachmen would react poorly to him due to him being born a Greyjoy of the Iron Islands. The young Hoster Tully had viewed him with pure hostility at Riverrun a year ago; Theon was surprised and bewildered when he was treated as a friend rather than a foe at Highgarden by all the pleasant and affable Reachmen. Like any young man, Theon refused to dwell on reasons why. The Tyrells were eager to accept him as a much-welcomed guest – he was more than happy to oblige.

"Wake up." Robb threw an old, filthy tunic at him. Theon immediately threw it back. Theon cursed as Robb ducked at the last minute, the tunic hitting the door instead of the desired target: Robb's face. Robb sniggered. "Do you intend to stay cooped up in here all day?" he asked.

Theon shrugged. "It is perfectly pleasant in here…with a wench or two to keep me company of course." He smirked. For days, he had itched to purchase a clever and experienced whore to warm his bed. The Northern girls now bored him – to spend a night with a Reach girl. Now that…that was a night he would never forget. Robb shook his head as he caught sight of Theon's reminiscent grin. "Let's go," he said, fastening his cloak around his shoulders. "The girls are probably waiting for us in the Great Hall already."

"You ready to face the Kingslayer today?" Theon shut the door behind them as they headed out from their chambers.

"I hope I do not face him," Robb responded, biting his lip. "There is a very large difference between jousting against a Frey and a knight of the Kingsguard."

Theon nodded. "What are the chances you will verse Bolton?"

Robb shrugged. "An equal chance as versing Ser Jaime. Why did you decide not to participate in the joust? You are a fair rider."

"How kind of you to say so Stark." Theon smirked again. "No, jousting's not for me. Archery is." He jiggled the pouch of yesterday afternoon's winnings that sort of hid comfortably in his pocket. It felt quite a deal lighter than it was before. _For a memorable night, one must spend a great deal_ , he thought. The private room in one of Highgarden's finest taverns, three servings of the best food available and a dozen or more small cakes and tarts with two large flagons of Arbor gold…

"You must have had a great night," Robb remarked.

"Hmm?" Theon blinked. His mind was on _her_ again.

"She must have been one enticing woman…to have you acting like this today. I must ask, when did you return to your room last night?"

 _Quite late_. Theon shrugged. "I had a good sleep. What were you saying before? Was it about the Princess Lyanna again?"

"No." Robb frowned slightly. "What do you think of the Tyrell girls? Any catch your eye? They are quite pretty."

"The king will have your head if you run off with a Tyrell!"

Robb laughed. "As will Lord Mace and no doubt my father." He quietened. "Do you think you will ever go home?"

A lump formed in Theon's throat. "Winterfell?" he said, attempting to turn it to some sort of truthful jape. "Once the festivities are over and you crown your dear princess your Queen of Love and Beauty, we will all be on our jolly way home to Winterfell. It won't be long now."

"No, not Winterfell. For you…Pyke."

Theon froze. Pyke…it sounded more like a distant memory now than home. He never remembered any good recollections of his childhood at Pyke. _You've never been one of them_ , a voice whispered in his head. _Pillaging, plundering, enslaving, raiding…you do not have the guts for that. Call yourself a Greyjoy? You know the North better than you know the Iron Islands_. Heat rushed to his cheeks. When was the last time he thought of the Drowned God? When was the last time he actually missed his real family?

"Theon?"

"When the time is ripe I suppose," Theon said absently. If he was the son of a bothersome Martell or a rebellious Lannister, he would have been married and at home even. However, fate had decreed he was to be the son of a defiant Greyjoy – the chances of returning to Pyke grew slimmer each month. "I'll be able to return once my father dies at least," he said uncertainly. "I _am_ his heir."

"The North and the Iron Islands will be more at peace with you as the Lord of the Iron Islands and I the Lord of Winterfell," Robb said confidently. "Look at my father and the king. They were both raised at the Eyrie and now they are still the best of friends. We will too." He patted him on the shoulder. "Imagine you return with Arya as your wife," he joked, his purple eyes twinkling. "At least your people will be satisfied you are not married to a demure northern girl who does nothing but dance and sing southron songs all day."

Theon shuddered. "Imagine you are married to my sister." He could not resist wondering if his elder sister Asha was still skinny with a face besieged from her forehead to chin with pimples.

"A Greyjoy Lady of Winterfell." Robb chuckled, but more thoughtfully, "and a Stark Lady of Iron Islands. I doubt the Northerners and Ironborn will be happy at that. It might cause more chaos than peace. What is your sister like?"

"You cannot be seriously considering asking her hand in marriage. Asha is…is nothing like Princess Lyanna or your sisters!"

"Not even Arya?"

"Not even Arya," Theon confirmed hesitantly. "Where are you going?" He saw Robb turn the corner away from the Great Hall.

"Breakfasting with the king," said Robb apologetically. "His orders. I thought I told you about it yesterday?"

"It must've slipped my mind. Enjoy your breakfast with the king. I will go and find a…tavern to break my fast in. No point dining alone."

"Jon and Dany will be in the Great Hall."

No doubt hiding in some corner in Highgarden's Great Hall away from all the nobles. Besides, breakfasting with them would be boring. All they do was stare at each other – and their food – and converse awkwardly. By the gods, if he was Jon Snow, he would've fucked Daenerys when he had the chance. He clearly liked her and Theon knew for a fact, that Daenerys Sand mourned his departure to Dorne. _Snow has good taste in women_ , Theon thought as he wandered away. _More like_ a _woman_. He had never seen Snow enter a whorehouse or seek intimacy with any of Lady Stark's ladies or maidservants. Theon himself had ravished more than a few of Winterfell's maidservants and by the gods, the brewer's wife was his most enjoyable and memorable – she took his virginity after all.

Though Theon cracked a smile at that memory, he could not shake the thought of home from his mind. _Where is my home?_ If his brothers were alive, perhaps he would be at Pyke, sporting with an Ironborn wench or pillaging some island with a crew of his own as it was done in the Iron Islands. _The Old Way_. He touched the golden chain around his neck. _The blood of the Ironborn is salt and iron, not milk. We warriors pay the iron price, never the gold price._

It had been far too long since he participated in the Old Way. Theon had never remembered paying the iron price in his life.

"My lord Theon. We meet again it seems."

A smile formed on Theon's lips as he found himself facing _her_. Theon's smile vanished at once when he saw that she was not alone. He stifled a groan when he met the scowling glare of the young heir of Riverrun.

"What a coincidence," said Theon, kissing Lady Melia's hand. Gods, Lady Melia was even more beautiful than he saw her last…night. "My lady, I see you're in an excellent health. How are you finding Highgarden?"

"Lovely." Lady Melia's pink lips curved into a pretty smile. "Of course Riverrun is more cosy, but Highgarden is…splendid. Very splendid indeed. My lord, do you remember my brother Hoster?"

 _How could I forget him?_ "My lord Hoster," said Theon, hoping to sound a little more pleasant than he actually felt.

"My lord Theon," said Hoster Tully shortly, his words slick with dislike. "I did not expect to see you again."

"Neither did I. How was I to know the Tyrells are so generous in their wedding invitations?" He smiled, enjoying the Tully heir's discomfort. "Will you be joining the tourney for squires? I hear it will take place tomorrow morning." Tully glared at him, his fingers edging towards his sword. What a hot-headed lad! What could have possibly possessed Lord Tully to give his thirteen year old son a sword at a time like this? Eh, it was none of his business anyway.

" _Hoster_ ," Lady Melia warned, giving her brother a long stare. "We're all guests here at Highgarden. The Tyrells will be horrified if we spill blood in their home. If you cannot find anything nice to say to Lord Theon, I suggest you leave."

"Take care sister," Tully muttered to her, his eyes never leaving Theon's. "It is unwise to stay near this Greyjoy alone for too long."

"Forgive my brother," said Lady Melia, once Tully stormed off in the direction of the Great Hall. "My father had said that Hoster had always been a hot-headed boy since birth apparently. He is now a squire to Lord Blackwood," she added. "It had been arranged a few months ago."

"Wouldn't Lord Bracken be furious?" Of all Riverlands' disputes, the infamous feud between the Blackwoods and Brackens was most memorable to Theon.

Lady Melia smiled. "He would be," she agreed. "He would be indeed. However, he had been placated about the same time my father decided for Hoster to squire for Lord Bracken. My younger brother Axel will squire for Lord Bracken in about four years' time _and_ marry one of his daughters when he reaches manhood. That appeased Lord Bracken greatly."

Theon chuckled and smiled fondly at her. It was so easy to forget that she was a girl of twelve…

"Last night was wonderful," Lady Melia said softly. "Absolutely wonderful. One of the best moments was my brother was unaware I met with you."

"I wager it would be," Theon smirked. "What of your sisters? Did they not ask where you went at night?"

"Both Rosaline and Elianor were asleep when I left my chambers. They're both young and were quite exhausted after such an exciting day. When I returned, the two of them were both still sound asleep." She beamed. "I was so happy for you," she confessed, "when you were declared third in the archery contest. I was more surprised you remembered me my lord."

Theon's eyebrows rose. "You thought I would forget about you?"

"We exchanged no letters over the course of the year and my brother oft told me that you would sport with any woman at any time and whoever who'd marry would be the saddest woman in all of Westeros."

Theon scoffed. "A lie, my lady. I do not sleep with _any_ woman at _any_ time." He did not mention his new dream woman was her. Every whore he would find was red-headed. They were quite rare and often the most expensive in the North, but they were worth it.

"What is it about me that you like?"

Everything. You flaming red hair, your blue eyes that sparkled like sapphires, your clever wit. "There's no one like you," said Theon simply. He hardly knew his own words. _There's no one like you_. He had never said that before. Well he had to the priciest wench he purchased at winter town once, but at that time he was in a moment of bliss. This time…Lady Melia was no whore – far from it. She was Lord Tully of Riverrun's eldest daughter and the queen's own niece! If that was not the only problem, she was only twelve!

Twelve!

"So much has happened in a year," Lady Melia remarked. "So many betrothals and plans…the Freys are still keen to have a Tully in their family. If a Lannister is not enough! Are you betrothed yet my lord?"

Theon shook his head, a little red with embarrassment. A young man grown of twenty and still unwed! He enjoyed the life of an unmarried man, but he did grow uneasy. Once married, surely he would not remain in Winterfell as a ward! It did not seem…right at all.

"My father wants me married to Ser Lancel Lannister," Lady Melia went on. "It will finally bring the much wanted peace between the Westerlands and home. I'd met Ser Lancel once or twice too."

"You pleased with him?"

"Not in the slightest. I have no desire to be mother of golden cubs." Her eyes lit up suddenly. "We can get married," she said excitedly.

" _What?_ " Terror took hold of Theon. He was a man and she was a girl…no! Just no! He would wait for her to grow a little more if Lord Stark and Lord Tully both agree to the match which he doubted, but elopement! Not only would his head be served on a platter to the furious Lord Tully, but his cock too! Theon resisted the inward shudder of fear.

"You are unbetrothed and I have no intention to wed a Lannister." Lady Melia reached out and grabbed his gloved hands. "Let us go and marry, my lord. We can go to one of Highgarden's smaller septs and wed today."

"My lady…we hardly know each other."

"So? We will end up wedding strangers anyway."

"No my lady." Theon untangled his hands from hers. "You are twelve, a girl. If we are caught, you will be sent to the Silent Sisters and I…I will lose my head. It's wiser if I return you to your brother and we cease contact. It seems my lady, that last night was a mistake."

Lady Melia stepped away, visibly hurt. "How can you say that Theon? You had invited me to sup with you last night and professed your desire to see me more – you said ever since we met at my grandfather's funeral, you thought about me for days and weeks afterwards. Do you not remember the flower you gave me on the day you had to return to Winterfell? It was a rose. You told me to imagine it blue like the blue winter roses at Winterfell."

The words tugged a memory in Theon's mind. He had promised Lady Melia a blue winter rose…

"We cannot – and _will not_ – wed," Theon said firmly, hoping to avoid any more talk about the terrifying notion of a secret marriage. "The most I can do is ask for permission to marry you and wait for you in a year or two."

"I am a woman grown my lord! I am a woman grown!"

"There are still many days left in the festivities," said Theon gently. "I am older than you by eight years. You are still a child. You know nothing of marriage. You are still a summer child my lady. What I did last night…it would be seen as wrong in the eyes of well, everyone. I desire you, that is true, but why did you appear at that tavern last night?"

"I find you…interesting, my lord. You are different from all the other suitors I was obliged to meet over the year."

"I am no knight in shining armour."

"If I was after a knight in shining armour, my lord, I would have been dancing till midnight last night with Ser Lancel Lannister. I am tired of staying at home at Riverrun. Hoster is always so overprotective, my mother busy with the little ones, the River lords constantly bickering and wanting me married to one of them or at least to their sons! I once loved Riverrun for peace, my lord, but now I want to go out on an adventure…before I am settled in marriage."

"You wish to go on an adventure through wedding me?" Theon could not help ask with an arched eyebrow. "Forgive me my lady but that doesn't make much ah, sense. Forgive for this too my lady, but a lady like you…I cannot imagine you on a thrilling adventure in the wildness. Shouldn't coming to Highgarden be enough of an adventure for you?"

"I want a husband who can bring me adventure," Lady Melia said, almost with a hint of recklessness. "What use is a knight in shining armour?" She grabbed one of his hands again. "Oh my lord, can you at least think about it? You already said that you desired me, is that not enough? Please do not tell me now that you are a man who desires and loves women from afar, but when it comes to wedding one of them, you decide she is now undesirable?"

Theon stepped back, uncertainty swimming in his gut. He did find a number of women attractive – mostly Lady Melia now – but marrying one of them? That had never occurred to him. He was the son of a disgraced great lord; a hostage even. No lord would want his daughter or sister married to Theon.

"I thought last night was a good time for us to meet," Theon said stiffly, "but it seems it was a mistake. I hope for your sake and mine, you will not speak about it to your father or brother."

Lady Melia stared at him, dumbfounded. "Why would I?"

Theon looked at her with pity…when he caught sight of it. It was barely visible, but he saw it. Right there at the corner of her eye was a glitter of madness.

* * *

 _Though the moon glistened brightly from its seat in the night sky, the tavern was still crowded. Recognising Theon from the archery contest, the tavern keeper's wife had somehow managed to arrange for him to have a rare private room to dine – with Lady Melia._

 _By the time there was a flagon of Arbor gold on the middle of the table encircled by plates of delicious food, Lady Melia arrived in the guise of a commoner. Even in a plain brown dress and a dark cloak, she looked beautiful. Her blue eyes glimmered with excitement when she saw Theon. Like a gentleman, Theon pulled out her chair and encouraged her to eat, his heart pounding with delight and wonder. Sitting in front of him was the woman of his dreams…and she was not a whore._

 _"I am so happy to see you again my lord," said Lady Melia, beaming at him. "It'd been a year…I thought you would have forgotten me."_

 _Theon had not forgotten her. Though exteriorly he acted as he always did when he returned to Winterfell, inwardly, he thought of her every day…only to remember he had the tiniest of chances to be with her. They were virtually strangers; a lady of Riverrun and a Stark ward. However, after the archery contest, she sought him out almost at once, to Tully's disapproval._

 _"I prayed you would win," Lady Melia had said to him. "Third! You were against the finest archers in all of Westeros!" She clapped her hands together with joy. "You came third my lord Theon! Third! What victory!" Theon had not corrected her that to come first was more a victory than third place. At the time, he was more pleased that Lady Melia still knew who he was._

 _When Hoster had left them alone, Theon was at his peak of giddiness, happiness and excitement. "What say in us meeting again tonight?" he whispered. "I will send you a note of our location. Dine with me tonight." It was foolish but he did not think it then. He even winked conspiringly at her._

 _Oh Lady Melia had been delighted. She clapped her hands again and again, her eyes shining so brightly and pleasure danced in them along with…_

* * *

Madness.

How had he not seen it? Theon had hurried back to his chamber, groaning to himself in horror. Lady Melia Tully was truly mad. Madness glittered in her eyes and he hadn't noticed it earlier. What a fool! One of her maternal aunts, the Lady Malora, was called the Mad Maid of the Hightower.

The Mad Maid.

Was Melia Tully to follow her on the path of insanity?

If it were not whores Theon purchased, it was a mad girl that loved him – or at least wanted him in some way.

Theon shuddered. _No more_ , he promised himself. _I'll distance myself from the Lady Melia. I will never see or speak to her again._ There was no rush to replenish the members of House Greyjoy. He still had a sister and three uncles. Besides, the thought of tainting his House with madness…

The heir of Pyke shivered again.

* * *

 **I know it's been quite some time since I lasted updated - so sorry about that! For those who asked if I'm abandoning this story, I really don't want to. I probably said this before, but I kind of dug myself a hole too deep and right now trying to reorganise the plot. I originally planned to make this a Ned chapter, but it was horrible - more horrible than this one if you found this chapter pretty bad. Anyway...I will try and continue with the story as best I can.**


	57. Orys I

The crowds roared with approval as the vicious Ser Gregor Clegane was at last unhorsed – and by the Knight of Flowers of all tourney jousters. Ser Loras smiled as he rode around the tourney field atop his white mare in armour wrought with jewelled flowers and his cape of woven roses billowed around him. Orys's bright blue eyes followed him, wishing Ser Loras would quickly hand the red rose in his hand to the simpering maiden who had caught his fancy. Orys Baratheon couldn't wait until the tourney was over.

Orys glanced to his left. His younger brother Ormund was occupied, chattering busily to Bran Stark, no doubt about the Knight of Flowers's tourney skills. Both of them had enjoyed the Highgarden tourney _immensely_ ; Orys not so much. All of this…just for Uncle Renly's wedding! Orys inwardly sighed. His royal father often said that he was too solemn like Uncle Stannis.

"Ser Loras gives flowers every time he unhorses an opponent," Orys heard his sister Lyanna remark to Bran's sister Lady Lyarra. Both the girls were staunchly supporting their respective betrotheds: Robb Stark and Domeric Bolton, both of whom Orys noticed were fair jousters. Their techniques were not as refined and elegant as say Ser Loras's or Ser Jaime Lannister's, but they were quite good for a pair of Northerners.

The Knight of Flowers slowed in front of the royal stand and after nodding to Orys's parents, he handed the red rose to his beaming sister Lady Margaery, now Lady Baratheon. Orys spotted his new aunt Margaery's favour – a green strip of linen decorated with something golden and black – tied to the tip of her brother's lance. It seemed she'd given her favour to both Uncle Renly and Ser Loras.

"Who do you think will win the tourney?"

Orys blinked. Ormund and Bran looked at him expectedly. "There are a good number of excellent jousters," Orys said cautiously, "Ser Barristan the Bold, Robb Stark, Domeric Bolton, Ser Jaime Lannister, Great-Uncle Brynden…" If he had not mentioned the two Northerners, both his sister and future good-sister would be quite displeased and Lord and Lady Stark who sat close to his father and mother would be offended. As anticipated, all the women in the royal stand – his mother, two sisters, Lady Stark, Lady Lyarra and Lady Margaery – nodded agreeably. His father grunted too. "And Ser Loras," Lady Margaery added. "My brother is a great jouster do you not agree my prince?" She laughed a little. "It is odd is it not?" she said, still smiling. "My lady grandmother had once hoped when I was a little girl that I would be your wife – now I am your aunt. Is that not amusing?"

Orys cracked a smile as Ormund snickered. He did not find it humorous. "Your father made the proper choice," Uncle Stannis had once said to him. "When your father won the Iron Throne by conquest, the Tyrells were traitors. If they had not controlled one of the largest armies and fleets, they would have no doubt been all stripped of their titles and lands." He had darkened. "However your father was a merciful king and thought it best to bind the Tyrells to our House hence why you will have a Tyrell aunt soon." When Orys asked why the Lady Margaery wasn't to be his bride to unite Houses Baratheon and Tyrell, Uncle Stannis had grinded his teeth and muttered, "Only a fool rewards a traitor by wedding a traitor's child to his own royal heir."

The thought of marriage had crossed Orys's mind once in a while. One day he would be married to a highborn girl from one of Westeros's noble houses for the sake of a strong friendship between his House and her House. At first he thought he would receive a Stark bride due to his father's close friendship with Lord Ned Stark, but it seemed Father was more interested in having a Stark good-son than a Stark good-daughter. _Will it be a Lannister?_ No. Aunt Cersei was a Lannister. A Greyjoy? The thought of it was horrifying. An Arryn? Possibly. A Martell? Another possibility perhaps…

Next to his mother, little Minisa yawned sleepily. " Mother," said Orys, seizing the opportunity at once. "Minisa is tired from all this excitement. I will escort her to her chamber so she can rest awhile before the celebratory feast." His mother smiled and nodded. She glanced at Ser Arys Oakheart. "Ser Arys?"

Orys took Minisa's hand and slowly walked away with the Reach knight of the Kingsguard trailing behind them. "Will Aunt Margaery come home with us?" little Minisa asked eagerly.

"Do you wish her to?" asked Orys.

Minisa nodded eagerly, a bright beam appearing on her heart-shaped face. "I like her," she declared. "She is kinder than Aunt Cersei."

"Sssh," Orys hushed her at once. "Do not say that Minisa. It is dangerous. Aunt Cersei will be very angry if she hears this." He too didn't like Uncle Stannis's wife much, but he never uttered a word of hatred against her. Not only was it unkind, but her father was the powerful Lord of Casterly Rock

Minisa blinked blankly. Orys sighed. She was still a child…a child of seven, but still a child. Gone were his days of childhood; he had lost them when he was sent from the royal nursery and into the household of his uncle Stannis. Orys was well aware of the arguments that erupted between his father and uncle – who would not? – and found himself secretly siding with Uncle Stannis the more he grew up and learnt more about the changing world.

"Aunt Margaery is so kind to me," Minisa had chattered on. "When we arrived at Highgarden, she arranged for me to have many playmates. They're all friendly Orys! We played many games together. Before Aunt Margaery's wedding, we had played come-into-my-castle, hide-the-treasure and rats-and-cats. I also wished to play monsters-and-maidens, but Lady Alerie was worried I would hurt myself in the game. Lady Alerie suggested that instead of playing monsters-and-maidens, it would be safer to go inside and play with dolls."

"Who did you play with?"

"Lady Leona and Lady Alysanne. They are so nice to me." No doubt one or the both of them were Tyrells. "Can they come with us and Aunt Margaery to King's Landing?" Minisa looked hopefully at Orys.

 _"You cannot trust Tyrells."_ Orys remembered Uncle Stannis telling him. _"They grow…closer and closer to power."_ Perhaps it was because of Uncle Stannis's own hatred towards them that he was so suspicious and grim. Then again, Mother had often warned Orys not to favour nobles of one House too much. It was said that a royal favourite more often than not would end up being the most despised man – or woman – in all of Westeros.

"You have lovely friends in King's Landing," said Orys gently. "I hear Mother is arranging for a few noble girls around your age to join you now that Ormund and Lyanna have their own companions." It was true. Over the last few months, their mother had began making arrangements to foster young girls Minisa's age in her household. Minisa had always been shy; more friends her age would do her some good. Besides, she would need companions as Lyanna would be leaving them in a few months' time. We are not much like our father, Orys couldn't help think. Out of the four of them – him, Lyanna, Ormund and Minisa – only Ormund carried the air of open friendliness that was prominent amongst their good-humoured father and charismatic Uncle Renly. Orys himself found the overly jovial behaviour too uncomfortable to manage. As for the girls, they both seemed to be miniatures of their mother: polite, beautiful, well-mannered…

"When will you be married, Orys?"

Orys opened the door to his little sister's bedchamber. "When the time is ripe, little sister," he told her softly. "When the time is ripe. Now rest, Minisa. You will be expected at tonight's feast." _Another_ feast. More dancing. More mingling. More diplomatic responses.

 _When will it all end?_

* * *

The Seven seemed to have granted Orys's wish. That night, amongst the great blusters and mumbles of Lord Mace Tyrell, he managed to say that the wedding festivities were finally coming to an end. "Tonight we'll celebrate in honour of all the victors," Lord Tyrell declared, "and tomorrow festivities will officially end in the Reach way: a farewell feast."

Beside him, Ormund roared with approval. Their father chuckled. _At least he is pleased one of his children is like him_ , Orys thought. As Lord Tyrell continued his long and tiresome speech, Orys's mind began to wonder. For a prince, he had not travelled in his father's domains much. He visited Winterfell once – no doubt it'll be twice when Lyanna marries Robb Stark – and Riverrun over a dozen times as he had been quite fond of his Tully grandfather and Mother liked taking him and Lyanna to visit him once a few months. He had even been a guest at Greenstone – the seat of his now deceased great grandfather Lord Estermont – and had played with his Baratheon cousins at Storm's End on more than one occasion. He could not help but wish they were here with him.

"…and House Tyrell is _so_ very honoured to have the royal family here…" Lord Tyrell was saying. "We of House Tyrell will wish naught more…"

Orys glanced at his father. His smile was gone, replaced by a look of boredom and impatience. From his place on the dais, Orys scanned the sea of nobles. Many of them looked bored, some impassive. None of them seemed pleased to listen to Lord Tyrell's seemingly endless speech. Orys made a note that in the future if he was ever required to make a speech, he will keep it short and sweet. No one alive would want to hear the brags of a proud man. Orys almost laughed when he saw Minisa stare sleepily at the empty plate in front of her.

The heir to the Iron Throne snuck another glance at his father. Over the years, his stomach had grown larger and his temper shorter. Odd. Orys dug around his memory – had Father visited him in the nursery often? No. As far as Orys and his siblings were concerned, their father rarely visited them whether they were little babes in the nursery or growing children in the schoolroom. _Father seems to be a good more at ease with strangers than his own family_. Mayhap it was the Tully in him. _Many children don't see their parents during their childhood_ , a voice said in Orys's head. _It is only natural_.

 _Would I have accepted Father's absences if Mother too rarely saw us?_ Though married to a Baratheon, Mother still held strong to the Tully words. Orys almost smiled as he remembered the hours he would spend on his mother's knee when he was a little boy – almost. There was no good in the nobles catching the tiniest of glimpses in his smiles.

Finally after what seemed like a few centuries, Lord Tyrell ceased talking and the penultimate feast _finally_ started. Orys was not attached to fine food as strong as his father was, but when the Tyrell servants started placing platters and bowls of different types of Reach delicacies on the table in front of him, Orys's eyes had gleamed with hunger and his mouth watered.

"Let the feast begin!" said Lord Tyrell generously.

Nothing more needed to be said.

To his left, Father attacked the roasted boar with great relish; it perturbingly reminded Orys of Father's favourite war tale – slaying the dragon prince Rhaegar Targaryen in the Battle of the Trident. _It is a roasted boar_ , Orys thought uneasily as he calmly cut himself a portion of roasted chicken, his dagger slicing bits of its gleaming golden skin with a satisfying _crunch_. It's a roasted boar, not Rhaegar. It is a roasted boar. Just a roasted boar.

On Orys's right, Ormund seemed torn between the roasted boar and finely cut slices of venison. "The boar or the venison?" Orys heard Ormund ask their uncle Renly who had changed his clothes for the third time that day. Right now he was garbed in bright green silk to Orys's discomfort. Uncle Renly was a _Baratheon._ He should wear the Baratheon colours with pride. _Like the Lannisters,_ whispered the voice in Orys's head. On impulse, Orys glanced down at the Lannisters who didn't look the least bit happy being seated at the lower tables. Well, the unsmiling Lord Tywin Lannister and his heir Lord Tyrion were given places of honour at the high table like the lords and the heirs of the other Great Houses. It would have been a vast slight if Lord Tywin was _not_ seated at the high table.

"Is something amiss my prince?" Lady Margaery looked at Orys intently. Orys shook his head. "I was lost in thought," he answered.

"Eat, my son," Father encouraged. He glanced at Orys critically. "You are much too thin," he declared. "Eat more, Orys! Eat more!" He snickered more to himself than to other listeners. Orys forced himself to smile and laugh as he watched his father help himself to more roasted boar.

"You are in fine shape Orys," Mother said kindly. "Try the rosehip soup. One of the Tyrell ladies told me it is quite refreshing." Tentatively, Orys tried the soup. It was rich dark orange-brown in colour and tasted sweet and and indeed, slightly refreshing. It was also less rich than the soups at King's Landing – excellent. Soup should not be as rich as the cakes and biscuits.

"Did you expect Prince Oberyn to win the joust?" Ormund asked Orys. "If we were permitted to wager with real coins, I would have lost hundreds. But I hadn't wagered," he added hastily as Mother began to frown at him.

Orys shook his head. "I did not think Prince Oberyn Martell had the patience in jousting. I thought he would win the melee."

"Indeed Brother! I did not expect a _Northerner_ to win; and a woman too!" He lowered his voice. "Did you see Lord Tyrell's face?"

Orys could not help but chuckle. "I remember his mother Lady Olenna snap at him to shut his mouth before he swallows a fly. A remarkable woman, his mother. There are not many women like her."

"You fancy her eh?" Ormund grinned childishly. "Will you ask for her hand?"

Orys rolled his eyes. "Will you wed the melee victor?"

Ormund shuddered. "Uncle Renly is so fortunate," he whispered enviously. "I would love to marry a lady as pretty as Lady Margaery. She is just like a princess from the songs." Orys stared at him, astonished. Since when did Ormund read or listen to the songs ladies loved so much? Then again, even he must admit that his new good-aunt was exceptionally beautiful and charming and acted in a manner similar to a princess from the songs that Lyanna had described to him and their mother in avid detail when she was a child. "Uncle Renly didn't wed her because she is beautiful," Orys said finally. "He married her because of duty."

Ormund frowned. "Can a lord or prince not marry a lady because of love too? I thought Lord Stark married Lady Stark out of love – Bran told me that they never argued and always loved each other."

Orys glanced at Lord Stark and his wife. Both were immersed in a seemingly deep conversation. "They could be married for political reasons first," he pointed out flatly. The talk of marriage started to irk him. "Have you decided whether to sample the boar or the venison yet?"

"I've decided to taste both."

"Try the rosehip soup. Mother recommends it highly."

Ormund snorted. "Soup? Soup is for women and the weak!" Orys could feel his elder sister's sharp glare – she sat a few seats away from him. "You'd enjoyed the warm soup we had at Winterfell," Orys remarked. Ormund huffed and returned to chat with Uncle Renly. Orys himself took a bite of chicken and allowed his eyes to wander over to the Stark table. There sat Lyanna's future family; a couple with grim expressions like their Stark ancestors and the rest laughing, no doubt at a joke uttered by one of them or their friends.

Closest to the edge of the trestle table was the eldest of the three Stark sisters, the Lady Lyarra. From afar, she looked like a miniature version of her mother. It was her long dark hair, Orys decided. Next to her was the Lady Arya, who had for some reason loaded a pile of peas onto her spoon. Her smirk showed that she did not plan to eat those peas. Orys almost smiled. Opposite the two girls were their brothers Bran and the brooding Jon Snow and their future good-brother Domeric Bolton. _Their marriage is set in stone_ , Orys thought as he watched the Bolton heir pour Lady Lyarra Arbor gold himself. _They'll wed as Robb Stark and Lyanna will too_. He looked at Robb who was seated beside Lyanna at the high table. He liked the Stark heir; he had an honest and kind look about him and was quite able with the jousting lance. Robb had did quite brilliantly actually, progressing well to the end, only to be unhorsed against Great Uncle Blackfish, who in turn lost against Domeric Bolton who was knocked from his horse when he jousted against Prince Oberyn. It was a shock; Lady Lyarra had claimed her betrothed was an excellent rider and was almost part-horse himself. Then again, even horses are spooked by snakes and what more sly serpent was there other than the Red Viper himself?

"My father was quite horrified when Prince Oberyn crowned his paramour his Queen of Love and Beauty," Aunt Margaery was chattering away to Uncle Renly who nodded politely. "I too found it scandalising yet expected it. Why else would Prince Oberyn bring his paramour to Highgarden?" Orys said nothing. As he went on eating his meal, he caught sight of Mother whispering in Lyanna's ear. Lyanna then turned to Robb. "My lord," Orys heard her say sweetly. "I am afraid I am ah, quite full. Shall we dance for awhile?" Would Robb Stark be bold enough to reject it…with both his parents and Lyanna's watching like hawks?

It was not long before Mother caught Orys watching. " _Go and dance too_ ," she mouthed. " _Begin with your new good-aunt_." Orys bit back a sigh. Shouldn't Uncle Renly dance with his wife first? In no mood to argue, Orys turned to his lady aunt by marriage. "Lady Baratheon," he said respectfully, standing up. "I will be quite honoured if you dance with me."

Lady Margaery smiled and took his hand. "I'll be honoured to dance with you my prince," she responded. The musicians spotted them approach the vast dance floor and immediately struck a new, more jovial tune. Lyanna and Robb followed them as did a couple of other nobles. After the first four bars of music, the dance floor was quite crowded. Northerners danced with southroners; Valemen with a number of Reach ladies; old grudges were laid aside and Brackens stiffly danced with Blackwoods and Prince Oberyn favoured a number of dances with a couple of Margaery's Tyrell cousins. His Queen of Love and Beauty remained seated and watched her lover dance.

After Orys danced with Margaery, he felt obliged to dance with other ladies. It would do him no favours if he slinked back to his chair like a sulky child. Over the next few hours, Orys danced with so many highborn maidens: Lyanna and Lyarra and even Arya Stark; he also asked Lord Stark's bastard niece to dance. Frey girls and Lannisters clamoured to him and he courteously danced with all – or almost all – of them. When he finally danced with the majority of all the women present (except Lady Olenna who proclaimed her sore feet quite loudly), he scrambled to the nearest chair and sighed softly, relieved that he was at last released from his dancing duties. He glanced around and was startled to see Prince Oberyn on the seat beside him, looking lazily at him.

"My prince," the Red Viper acknowledged languidly. "I see you were occupied all night on…social business."

"Prince Oberyn," Orys greeted. "Congratulations on your victory." His victory was astounding…and unexpected. The way he treated the joust as if it was just a silly game, with his broad smiles and light armour…he laughed with the squires and enchanted the ladies. It was only when he defeated Ser Jaime Lannister when he struck, posed for victory like a viper about to kill.

"My victory…" Prince Oberyn smirked. "Some say victory tastes sweet. Did you see our gracious host's face when I defeated his son?"

"An impressive victory."

Oberyn shrugged. "What is jousting when it comes to war? Ask Ser Brynden or Ser Barristan or even your royal father." He suddenly winked. "When it comes to a spear…or a lance and a swift steed, some say the Dornish have the upper hand." He paused for a moment. "Do you know a dish best served cold?"

A dish best served cold? Orys stared at the Dornish prince, puzzled. If Oberyn Martell was eager to discuss cold cuisine, perhaps he should consult the cooks or the Reachmen even?

"The colder the dish," Prince Oberyn continued, "the sweeter the victory…" He stood up and dipped his head. "My dear Queen of Love and Beauty seems to be in the pits of boredom," he commented. "I must remedy it with a dance. Until we ah speak again, eh?" He winked again and sauntered away, leaving Orys alone in his bewildered thoughts.

* * *

 **I'm sorry for the late update. This is what happened: I decided to take a short break (by short break, I mean finishing a load of uni work -_-), then I caught the flu which lasted a week and then I had a new batch of uni work to finish. Anyway, thank you so much _pawelp_ for helping me climb out of the massive hole I created with the plot :) The plot problems are now solved (hopefully) so I will try and write more once this week is over :) **


	58. The Heir of Riverrun

The journey from Highgarden was long and arduous. The Reach was beautiful, yes, but over time, the sweet scent of flowers and fruit staled; the once-warming glow of the sun turned into a constant, heating glare and over the weeks, young Hoster missed the confined walls of the Riverrun schoolroom and even the small, cosy library of his new home, Raventree Hall.

It was a rather vast party that departed from Highgarden to King's Landing: in the frontlines were the royal family, surrounded from the front to back with a big squad of knights and members of the Kingsguard; behind them were Hoster and his family and Ser Kevan Lannister and his eldest son Ser Lancel; following them were the other noble families from the Riverlands; and last in the immense party were an array of hedge knights, penniless knights and bards, the latter group no doubt hoping to find work at court in King's Landing.

It had been decided a few days before the departure time that there'll be a few more days of rest and recovery before Hoster and his family continued their way to Riverrun – well, in Hoster's case to Raventree Hall with the other Blackwoods. The thought of leaving Melia at Riverrun without him was disconcerting. Hoster loved his sister as a brother should; he was her knight in shining armour in all of the games they played as children. A lump formed in Hoster's throat. What if his sister will spiral further into…

He did not even want to say it. To say the word was…

"Is there something on your mind, my son?" His mother's gentle and soothing voice had interrupted his disturbed thoughts.

Hoster was about to shake his head. _Mothers always know_. He glanced around carefully. Good. No one was close to him but Mother. It seemed Melia had elected to sit in the wheelhouse for awhile. "I am worried," Hoster confessed quietly. "It's to do with Melia." Mother nodded slowly, her brown eyes glistening with concern. Hoster took a deep breath. "I'm afraid she is uh, afflicted with…with the illness of the mind," he muttered. "I have not talked to Maester Vyman, but I've noticed for quite some time that she is easily overexcited…so easily. I do not think many are aware of it," he added hastily in the hopes of comforting Mother. "I think for now, it is only I who know…and you…" His voice trailed away. For what seemed like an eternity, Mother remained silent. Hoster's stomach turned this way and that way as he waited for her answer. Only the wind talked to him. It hissed in his ear and whistled wildly, daring him to shout back at it like…like a madman. _I am_ not _mad_ , Hoster told himself fiercely. _I am not_.

"You are quite observant," Mother said finally with a soft, sad sigh. "I thought I was the only one who knew…when did you find out?"

"Before I started squiring for Lord Blackwood." In truth, he discovered it a few months after Grandfather Hoster's funeral. "Melia…she did not want me to leave Riverrun. She said Riverrun would be dull without me."

Mother frowned slightly. "Poor girl. She was such a happy child when she was a babe – you all were." She sounded wistful. "Do not tell your father this, Hoster, I noticed Melia's…illness earlier. It was about a year ago when Lords Bracken and Blackwood were at Riverrun again, bickering over land disputes again. When one of them suggested marriage between Melia and one of their sons, I thought I saw something flash in Melia's eyes. I feared she would scream at them and refuse the mere thought of a betrothal. I thanked the Seven she did not. If she had…it would not be long before everyone would've known the truth."

"Why is she ill?"

"Only the Seven know, my son. Perhaps the Seven cursed her for our sins."

"Surely there is another reason!"

"House Tully is an illustrious House," Mother remarked. "A Great House even. However, I've heard a rumour – a childish one – that ever since your grandfather married a Whent, the Harrenhal curse descended upon our House."

Hoster could not help being intrigued. A family curse?

"I'm certain you remember Maester Vyman telling you that no House was able to keep hold of Harrenhal for long," Mother went on calmly, as if she was reading him a bedtime story instead of informing him about a rumoured family curse. "If you cast your mind back to your history lessons, you'll remember that Harrenhal was passed from a number of noble houses of the Riverlands."

"Houses Hoare, Qoherys, Harroway, Towers, Strong, Lothston and now Whent," Hoster recalled without any difficulty.

Mother nodded. "I am not from the Riverlands yet I am aware of the curse. I'm certain that House Whent was a powerful house back in its day. All noble houses prosper at one stage, but then…if not careful, they would fall. That regards heirs as well. Some heirs will ruin their House; others will prosper it. I'll always think the best of House Tully…"

"What is it, Mother?"

With another quiet sigh, Mother shook her head. "You are still a boy, Hoster. I do not think you want to hear about my thoughts."

"I do Mother," Hoster urged. "I do."

"No. You are too young, a boy still. When you are older perhaps. Melia's illness could be due to the family curse…or something else." Hoster waited patiently. He had long learnt that the patient ones gained more information. "How do you like your Hightower cousins?" Mother said, changing the subject. "I'd hoped that once the Highgarden festivities were over, we would go to Oldtown for a few weeks. It would be nice for you to see my childhood home and meet your grandfather Lord Hightower who is ailing now. It seemed your father had other ideas."

"I like my cousins." The words sounded plain and emotionless. In truth, Hoster only knew his Hightower cousins' names, fought against the Hightower boys in a mock battle for squires and danced with the Hightower girls. Out of his maternal cousins, Hoster liked Denys Redwyne and Alyn Ambrose the most. Both were the sons of his aunts Lady Denyse, wife of Ser Desmond Redwyne, and Alysanne, the wife of Lord Arthur Ambrose and were a year or two his senior. "I'd be delighted to see them again soon," Hoster murmured.

Mother smiled. "My brothers were all keen for you to squire for them. When I told them you are squiring for Lord Blackwood, they were quite disappointed. It would be nice would it not, for you to squire for your uncle?" Hoster didn't point out that the wiser choice was to squire for a River lord and not one of his uncles from the Reach.

"Are all my aunts married, Mother?" said Hoster curiously.

"Most of them. Why?"

"You told me you had five sisters, Mother. I only saw three. Aunt Alerie, Aunt Denyse and Aunt Alysanne."

"You have always been a curious lad, Hoster. Sometimes being curious…" She shook her head. "If your curiosity can be quenched, I'll tell you my youngest half-sister Lynesse had disgraced both her husband's House and the illustrious name of Hightower. My siblings – under the instruction of our father – pretend that she is no longer our sister." She darkened. "Lynesse had always been a fool," she said more to himself than to Hoster. "I never thought Lynesse would be _that_ foolish…" Mother sighed a third time. "Anyway, my eldest half-sister Malora, my brothers told me that Malora and our father had not descended from the Hightower in…a good many years."

"Why?"

Mother ruffled his hair fondly. "You ask too many questions Hoster. Much too many for a young boy."

"I am not a _young boy_ , Mother. _Bryndon_ is a young boy. _Axel_ is a young boy. I'm almost a man, Mother."

" _Almost_ , Hoster. _Almost_. Enjoy the view, Hoster. Ask less questions," she added with a smile. "If this is King's Landing, you would not want to inquire too much. It might give other people the um, wrong idea. Why don't you go and ride with your royal cousins? Talk to them. It will keep you occupied for a while." Suppressing a sigh of his own, Hoster spurred his horse forward, urging him to trot a little more faster. He glanced back. Mother had slowed down to a leisurely canter. Instead of riding to Prince Orys, Hoster rode to his uncle Ser Garth Greysteel, a knight of the Kingsguard. Hoster smiled. Uncle Garth did not seem to be on duty…

"Uncle!" Hoster called. "May I ask you something?"

The Hightower knight slowed his horse and smiled at him with a nod. His dark brown hair had slightly greyed since the last time Hoster saw him. "Do you wish for me to take you to Prince Orys?" Uncle Garth asked.

Hoster shook his head. "I want to know about Aunt Malora."

The smile disappeared from his uncle's face. "Ask your mother," he said flatly, about to ride forward.

"Mother would not say."

"For good reason." Hoster thought he heard Uncle Garth mutter. Hoster rolled his eyes. "Come now Uncle! It could not be so horrible!"

"There are some matters you should not hear," Uncle Garth said stubbornly. "I suggest you forget about…" His voice trailed off. Hoster waited patiently – it was wasted. His Kingsguard uncle sped ahead without looking back. Hoster sighed. It was honestly no surprise. He had never been particularly close with him – or any of his maternal relatives. Perhaps it was due to a lack of contact. _I am not a young boy_ , Hoster thought obstinately. _Why must I always be treated as one?_ He couldn't wait until he arrived at Raventree Hall. There the Blackwoods treated him as one would treat a brother or a noble squire. Besides, Hoster enjoyed having boys his own age to spar with _immensely_.

It all started with the annual journey around the Riverlands. Like the previous times, Hoster and Melia accompanied Father and Mother. That particular journey was more significant than before. For one, it was Rosaline's first trip around the Riverlands and secondly – and most importantly in the eyes of Father – the three of them and perhaps their brother Bryndon were old enough to be betrothed. All the River lords were aware of it and the welcome and farewell feasts appeared to be more lavish than before – with the sole exception of the two tedious feasts at the Twins. Though the stay at the Twins was as dull as the last, Hoster could not help but shudder as he recalled it from his mind.

Shockingly, the ancient Lord Walder Frey was still alive and well. Infirm, but a prickly man. "He had always been vain and prickly," Father had commented. "He was probably born that way." _Probably_. During the Frey feasts, all old Lord Frey grumbled about was the lack of respect towards him and he also foisted all of his daughters and granddaughters on him, his eyes glittering slyly. _Would Lord Frey finally die happy with one of his children wedded to a Tully?_ Probably not.

Anyway earlier on, when Hoster and his family were guests at Raventree Hall, Hoster was invited to spar with Lord Blackwood's sons and two squires. Though they only sparred with wooden swords, Hoster enjoyed it. At Riverrun, only the master-at-arms and his instructor, Ser Desmond Grell, was unafraid of whacking him or hurting him.

"We are close to Bitterbridge," Hoster overheard a guard speak to another. "It is a few hours' ride, if not a little more. His Grace will no doubt wish to rest there for a day or two before we continue the journey. Do you think His Grace will have us travel to Storm's End?"

"No," the other responded. "A party as large as this? No. I am quite astonished that House Caswell has the means to host us for a few days. With His Grace's um, fondness for good food…"

"His Grace's brother Lord Baratheon is at King's Landing, not Storm's End. The king will not want to disturb Storm's End without its master present." _Wasn't the king the Lord of Storm's End before he won the crown?_ Hoster kept his thoughts to himself as he continued to listen. It was known that guards liked to chatter like a bunch of idle women during travel.

"Isn't His Grace's good-sister at Storm's End though?"

"So? I hear that lady is a bitch from the Seven Hells."

"Careful there Wilbar," the other guard cautioned the first who glanced in the direction of the Lannister party. "The Lady of Storm's End is the daughter of Lord Tywin Lannister, one of the most powerful men in Westeros. Calling his daughter that…it will ensure you a painful death."

"Aye. Is it true that Lady Baratheon is entertaining a…a shadow binder?"

"Seven Hells Ulrik! That is old news! Lady Baratheon did entertain that lady of Asshai at Storm's End…many months ago. When Lord Baratheon found out, he'd sent a raven straight to his wife, ordering her to send the lady away! The only red woman in Storm's End now is Lady Cersei Baratheon in her gowns of scarlet." He paused thoughtfully. "Reckon she is still fair of face?"

"Banish those thoughts Wilbar. I shudder to think what Lord Baratheon would do if he hears you lust for his wife."

The guard Wilbar snickered. "It is not as if he _needs_ a woman in bed."

Hoster slowly rode away as the guards' conversation turned from rumours to their experience with whores. _Not long now_ , he thought. _Perhaps at Bitterbridge I will have more luck finding out about this mysterious aunt of mine…_

* * *

"Theon. Theon Greyjoy. _Lord_ Theon Greyjoy."

By the Seven! Hoster would scream if he heard that bloody squid's name again – and by the lips of his sister! Hoster kept calm and forced himself to smile as his dear sister looked at him dreamily as if her mind lingered on a knight in the song rather than the Greyjoy heir.

"We are not at Riverrun," Hoster reminded Melia. "Are you ready?"

Melia nodded with a smile and took his arm. As expected, the Caswells had all insisted on honouring the king's stay with a lavish feast. Hoster would rather rest quietly in the guest chambers than attend a feast, but as the son and heir of Lord Edmure Tully of Riverrun and a nephew of King Robert Baratheon, he'd had not much choice but to go most reluctantly. Another cool autumn night to be wasted; guzzling down rich meat, sweet cakes and jellies, hot and cold soups and a dozen gallons of ale and Arbor gold and dancing with the beautiful maidens had all but lost their appeal. Who had the stomach to eat all night? Who had the strength to whirl around the dance floor until dawn?

"Do you think I will see Theon ever again?" Hoster glanced at Melia. "Perhaps," he said carefully, "or perhaps not." If he had his way, the cocky squid would lose his worthless life. Out of all lords, knights and heirs for Melia to fall violently and passionately in love with! Hoster studied Melia discreetly. She looked every inch a highborn maiden of House Tully. Her long auburn hair was braided and coiled, glistening with the silver circlet of tiny sapphires, pearls and rubies (a name day gift from the king and Aunt Catelyn); her gown also a dark shade of Tully blue. _All her dance partners will die with envy_ , Hoster contemplated as he led her towards the Great Hall of Bitterbridge. Bitterbridge Castle itself was small and built from stone and timber. From outside, the keep looked quite tall, but when Hoster went in, it was not that tall. It was due to the land, Bitterbridge's maester explained. It was because of the low and flat land that enhanced the height of the keep. After a quick tour, Hoster had remembered the way from his chambers to the Great Hall. It proved useful as Mother asked him to escort Melia to the feast.

"I wish you will come with me to Riverrun," sighed Melia wistfully.

"I do too," said Hoster half-truthfully. "You survived a few months without me already. You can surely live through a year or two."

"When will you return then? Before I wed I hope."

Hoster shrugged. "I will visit from time to time. Quite often if Lord Blackwood intends to continue the feud against Lord Bracken. I suppose when I am knighted, I will return to live at Riverrun as Father's heir."

"I don't want to marry a Lannister, Hoster."

"Don't be silly Melia. You will be the wife of one of the richest men in all of the Seven Kingdoms. If Lord Tywin has his way, his imp of a son will be disinherited and your future husband will be the next Lord of Casterly Rock after his father. It will be wonderful for the Riverlands, Melia. Father had secured us the Reach – or part of it at least – and Aunt Catelyn the Crownlands with Aunt Lysa securing the Vale." Hoster's eyes gleamed with pride at the web of marriage alliances his lord grandfather had created. What a genius stroke in wedding Aunt Catelyn to a king and Aunt Lysa to the King's Hand!

"Why cannot I marry a Blackwood or a Bracken? Tully girls have married sons of River lords for _centuries_."

"Grandfather started a new alliance policy. Father seems to maintain it as well as keeping the old alliance policy in place." Hoster liked talking about policies. He had began learning about it before he left for Raventree Hall and Lord Blackwood was more than happy to educate him further in that field. "Not every ally remains an ally," Lord Blackwood had said to him one day after training. "My family had a hundred peaces with the Brackens, many sealed with marriages. There's a pint of Blackwood blood in every Bracken, and Bracken blood in every Blackwood. King Jaehaerys the First's Peace lasted half a century. But then some fresh quarrel had broke out, and the old wounds opened and began to bleed again. That's how it all happens, my father told me once. So long as men remember the wrongs done to their forebears, no peace or alliance will ever last. So we go century after century with us hating the Brackens and them hating us. Even now old Bracken is in his solar, plotting against me. There will never be an end to it, my boy. Marriage can seal alliances but at the same time, it can also break families apart." He had then proceeded to tell the tale of another segment in the Blackwood-Bracken feud that regarded his great, great, great aunt, a Bracken and a hedge knight.

"What do you think of Lord Caswell's daughters?"

"Pretty to look upon," Hoster responded, leading Melia to the high table. "They do giggle a lot." After everyone was seated, Lord Caswell made a short speech – it was thankfully _much_ shorter than Lord Tyrell's ramblings – and declared it time to eat. Servants bearing the livery of House Caswell (a yellow centaur with a bow on white) filed into the Great Hall and served the tables with dishes of food and flagons of drink, beginning with the high table and ending with the table furthest away that was for all the hedge knights and bards.

Throughout the feast, Hoster ate little, drank a few sips and spoke politely and shortly when spoken to. Mostly, he watched, keeping a close eye on Melia. To his relief – and no doubt Mother's – Melia behaved well, smiling, laughing and acting the part of a highborn lady. She never mentioned the Greyjoy heir once and even danced with one of Lord Caswell's cousins. _She should never have met Theon,_ he thought angrily. _If she hadn't, she would not be so…so reckless at times_. Oh Melia had never been particularly wild in movement, but her words…Father would not be pleased to hear some of them.

However, Hoster was a good brother. He kept his mouth shut and never once reported Melia's words to Father or Maester Vyman. His lips pursed as he stood up to dance with a Caswell girl. Mother insisted. Thankfully the dance was fast; it wasn't long before Hoster returned to his seat and both of Lord Caswell's girls on the dance floor, twirling and dancing with other knights. Hoster grinned as one of his favourite sparring friends sat down next to him.

"The king has no intention of leaving tomorrow morning," Hoster Blackwood, Lord Blackwood's third son and another namesake of the late Lord Hoster Tully remarked casually. "What say you to a training match in the courtyard tomorrow after we break our fast? No good if we sit here and do naught."

Hoster, heir of Riverrun, nodded enthusiastically. _Tomorrow_. Every day was a day further away from Greyjoy. Maester Vyman said that time was a good healer of wounds. Perhaps he was right. Maybe all Melia needed was a few more weeks and she would be cured of her infatuation with Theon Greyjoy. Mayhaps she will recover in a month or less and be ready to play her part as a Tully.

 _I'll bring greatness to House Tully_ , Hoster vowed as he listened vaguely to the other Hoster murmur about the smallness of the Great Hall. _Whether through the art of diplomacy or battle…I will make Grandfather proud. And so will Melia…the day she is draped with the Lannister cloak and the smirking face of that Greyjoy wiped completely from her mind._

It would only take time.

* * *

 **Sorry for the long absence...again. Life was again hectic and I'm so glad it's the holidays now :) More time for writing! I originally planned a Davos chapter, but it did not work out so I tried the Hoster POV. I enjoyed writing it and I hope you liked reading it. Next chapter will be a return to an Ashara POV.**


	59. Ashara VIII

Pulling Ned away from the royal party would've been a simple task…if Robert had not clung to him like a man off to war with his wife or mother. "By the Seven Ned," Robert had grumbled loudly. "I need you at King's Landing. You'll be more of use there than at Winterfell."

"No Your Grace," Ned had said with a sad smile. "Ashara and I have been apart for too long and it is time we finally go home. Don't fear Your Grace. We will be at King's Landing in a few months' time for the wedding."

"Eh. There is no point you going north and then back south."

"The northmen want to go home. They will be displeased if I don't travel with them." As Ned continued talking to Robert, Ashara waited quietly by their horses. She wondered if snow had touched Winterfell's grounds yet. Maesters often said that long summers were followed by long winters…they mentioned naught about long autumns. Ashara inwardly shrugged. Out of the four seasons, she liked both spring and autumn the best. Who knows? By the time the northern party reaches Winterfell, winter might finally come.

A long winter.

"Mother?" Robb appeared at Ashara's side. "The Greatjon is complaining that if we do not begin our journey any quicker, winter will beat us to Winterfell. Is it the king again?" Ashara nodded. "Shall I tell Lord Umber to start the journey? He is never one to linger in the same place for a few hours if not a war."

Ashara frowned. "I thought the Greatjon wishes to speak to your father?"

"He does. Well, he _did_."

Ashara sighed. "Tell the Greatjon to wait another minute. I think the king and your father have finished their conversation." Once the words flittered out of her lips, she saw the king slap Ned heartily on the back. Ashara smiled. Even now the king and Ned were the closest of friends. Her stomach shifted as she pondered to herself about Ned. During the feasts, he spoke to her as if she had travelled with him and the children to Highgarden. He acted so…normal. The ordinariness of it unnerved her a little.

"Let's go," said Ned briskly, grabbing the reins of his horse. "The sooner we go the better." _Surely he and Robert ended their words as friends?_ Ashara thought, a little confused at his abruptness. "The south had always been a curse to us," Ned told her when he noticed her bewildered expression. "It was a mistake to come. I should have stayed at Winterfell."

"What is it?" said Ashara worriedly, expecting the worst. King Robert ordered Ned to be his Master of Laws again. Robb was to marry Lyanna Baratheon earlier than the agreed date. Robb was to live at King's Landing after the wedding. King Robert had ordered Lyarra's betrothal to Domeric to be broken. They were only the top concerning thoughts in her mind.

"Too many…" Ned muttered, mounting his horse. "Much too many…"

"Too many, Ned?"

"Too many betrothal proposals Ashara. Freys, Tyrells, Blackwoods, Brackens, Hightowers, Redwynes, Stokeworths, Swanns…" Ned shook his head. "Just a few minutes ago, Robert was hinting at another two sets of marriages. His ah, natural daughter Mya Stone for Jon and Gendry for Daenerys."

"I'm astonished Robert remembers Jon and…Daenerys."

"Oh, Robert remembers Jon." Ned chuckled darkly. "He still finds it amusing I sired a bastard." He shook his head again. "He'd forgotten about Daenerys until I unwisely mentioned her the other night. I doubt he remembered her…much. He is quite keen in Jon and Mya marrying."

"Mya Stone? Is she the girl from the Vale?"

"Aye Ashara. That very girl. She is in the service of House Royce I believe. I do not recall what she looks like – the last I saw her was when she was still a child. A little older than our Rickon when I left the Vale."

"Who is this Gendry?" inquired Ashara. "I heard his name before…" Was it Jon who mentioned him? No. Robb? Possibly. Arya? Highly unlikely. Lyarra? Chances were even slimmer. "I know he is one of Robert's natural children."

Ned nodded as the two of them slowly rode to the waiting northern party. "He is Robert's son by a tavern woman or someone. A common bastard I suppose you could say. I still do not know why Robert has him in the Red Keep with him."

Ashara frowned. "That is an insult, Ned. Even if Daenerys was a natural child, I will not have her marrying a common bastard. Why did Robert not suggest Edric Storm for Dany? His mother is a Florent."

"Edric Storm will be affianced to Joy Hill, Lord Tywin's bastard niece." Ashara arched an eyebrow. Ned's lips formed a twisted smile. "It seems that even with a good council, Robert is in need of more money. Oh, his daughters will both have a vast dowry each, but apart from that…I fear the treasury is in worse shape than it was when I was Master of Laws."

"I'm astonished Lord Tywin did not ask for a Lannister to wed one of the two Baratheon princes. What does Robert spend the money on? It's not as if there is a war on at the moment."

"Robert likes to spend his money on feasts and his wenches. He did before and it seems still does now. There is nothing I can do to change his behaviour. I don't approve of it, but there's nothing I can do…as his friend or subject. We will forget his suggestion of matching Gendry and Daenerys together. We will forget it. Why don't you ride with Lady Mormont? Greatjon is getting more impatient the longer he waits." Ned laughed quietly.

"Go," said Ashara, laughing with him. "You know what the Greatjon will say if he waits a minute longer."

Ned snorted. "Indeed. We will be travelling in front of the royal party by a few miles or so. Robert says he will leave this afternoon. If we leave now, I'm certain we can cover a good distance by tonight. Going home by boat is another option; I doubt the Greatjon or Lord Karstark will be pleased by it. Greatjon Umber said he would rather die on the road home than languish lazily on a barge." He glanced at Ashara briefly. "I cannot offend my bannermen at this stage." Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment. Was her time at Dorne so…so awful? Ned had forgiven her when they watched the joust – hadn't he?

* * *

"We will visit your mother's special grove once we return to the Dreadfort as we always do after a hunt or a ride," Ashara heard Lyarra murmur to Domeric as they approached Castle Cerwyn. "She will be excited to hear about our adventure at Highgarden wouldn't she?"

Ashara smiled. At least Lyarra would be happy married to Domeric. Not many ladies were happily married to Bolton lords, northern or other. Apparently Lord Bolton had decided to remarry and his choice of bride had landed on Lady Jonelle Cerwyn, Lord Cerwyn's daughter, a plump and homely maid of thirty four. If Lord Cerwyn agrees, Lady Jonelle would be Lord Roose's third wife and Lyarra's soon-to-be good-mother. It was a good match – a _very_ good match. Lady Jonelle was a kind lady and would no doubt bear Lord Roose many sons. Ashara glanced to her left at the short, stout, grey-haired Lady Maege Mormont whose expression bore no trace of a smile. When they rode from Highgarden up Roseroad, Ashara tried to start a conversation – to no avail. It was only when the northern party arrived and settled in the Crossroads Inn when Lady Mormont decided to converse quite cordially with Ashara. "I do not come south often," the formidable Lady Mormont had remarked. "The most southron place I travelled to was Flint's Finger. I tried to broker a match between a Flint and one of my girls. Ended with naught. Those Flints weren't so keen in having a warrior woman as their lady. Bah."

When Ashara crossed the northern border with the other northerners, she felt her skin prickle when she was wrapped by the cold northern winds. She shivered and quickly added more furs. Lady Mormont did not. "Autumn is close to its end," she commented. "By the time I return to Bear Island, there will be a fresh layer of snow on the ground."

"Winter is coming," Ashara echoed. Lady Mormont cracked a small smile. "Aye my lady," she agreed. "Winter is coming." She paused thoughtfully. "When I was a little girl, my mother sang a northern winter song to me. When I too had became a mother, I also sang that song to my girls when they were old enough to learn a few words. It was a traditional song I believe. A good northern one."

"Oh? What is it called?"

Lady Mormont chuckled. "It does not have the most creative of titles my lady. _'The Song of Winter'_ , it's called. A good northern song. Much better than all those ridiculous southron songs. One of the few songs I know," she added with a grin. "I don't know many, Lady Stark. When we reach Castle Cerwyn, ask Dacey to sing it for you. She sings it as well as she can wield a sword."

Ashara promised she would and watched as Lady Mormont turned to another one of her daughters – Alysane? – and became immersed in a conversation about the fish of Bear Island in comparison to Reach fish. Ashara looked at Lyarra. _She is growing up_ , she thought. Admittedly, Lyarra was the prettiest of her daughters, the most ladylike too. The rose of the North. Ashara watched her eldest daughter and Domeric ride in front of her. They made a fine sight together. On horses, they both looked as if they were part-horse themselves, a furred cape of pink and red billowing around Domeric and a cloak of grey and white wrapped snugly around Lyarra. Relations between Houses Stark and Bolton have never been better. The North would only prosper with the once rivalled houses joined together with the future Lords of the Dreadfort infused with Stark blood – and Dayne blood.

"Mother, are we there yet?"

"Almost," Ashara replied, smiling at Arya who was riding at her side now. Arya brightened considerably. For weeks, she brooded and frowned and would sneak away from the party in a suspicious manner. Ashara planned to ask Arya about it once they were at Winterfell. There was no point questioning her now – it could lead to an argument in front of all the northern lords. "I thought you liked riding Arya," said Ashara teasingly.

"I do," answered Arya, reaching into her satchel and taking out a big red apple she must have stashed away one day. "I can ride for _days_ , but everyone seems to be busy talking…" She sighed gloomily. "I wish Bran was here with us. Why does he have to go to King's Landing _again?_ At least he would actually talk to me as if I existed. These days even Jon seems to pretend I am invisible. When I try to speak to him, he hardly talks back. When he does, it is short answers." She huffed. "It is as if I am no one important."

"You are important," Ashara said immediately. "You will always be important to me, Arya. You know that Bran dreams to be a knight and squiring for Barristan the Bold will help him achieve it. Besides, having Bran at court does improve the relationship between the north and the south."

"I thought that's what Robb and Lyanna's marriage is for."

"Well, that is one point. Another, is that the king wants it. He had yearned for a Stark-Baratheon match since…since Queen Catelyn was pregnant with their first child. At least when Robb and Lyanna marry, the king will be pleased."

Arya scowled. "What if the king wants me to marry his son? Will you just give him a smile and agree?"

"The king will be content with Robb and Lyanna's marriage. He knows it'll not be wise to marry two of his four children to two Starks. Do not fear Arya. It'll be a northern husband for you."

"What if I don't want to ever marry? What if I don't want to have children like Lyarra will?" Ashara stared at her middle daughter, puzzled. She knew Arya was more…boyish than Lyarra and Gwenysse, but not to marry or bear children? That was quite…unconventional.

"You are still young," said Ashara gently. "I know you are a little frightened at the prospect of marrying and having children, but all women go through with it. I did, Lyarra will and you will too. What else will you do if not marry and bear your future husband children? Be an old maid?"

Arya scowled. "I can fight."

"Oh Arya! Clearly your father and I indulged you too much. You are a _girl_. You cannot possibly have a career as a sellsword."

"The Mormont women know how to fight."

"Bear Island had been often raided by wildlings and the Ironborn. If the ladies of Bear Island hadn't learnt how to fight, Bear Island would be wildling land or in the hands of the Ironborn. I cannot imagine which outcome is worse."

"What if I leave for Braavos?"

Ashara could not resist a smile. "Arya, you have wild and very vast dreams. It's time you know that you cannot go on dreaming forever. Are dancing lessons not enough for you now? Arya, not many men will want to marry a warrior woman. I think once you um, have your first moon blood, you should sheath your sword. I know you do not want to hear this, but maybe it is time-"

"No!" Arya cut in angrily. Lady Mormont glanced at her and Ashara. "I'd rather kill myself than marry a southron prick," Arya said furiously. "I will never sheath Needle just because I have moon blood!"

"Lady Stark," said Lady Mormont calmly. "Do I have your permission to speak to the Lady Arya alone for a moment?"

"Whatever for?" said Ashara with a frown.

"I myself have five wild daughters." Lady Mormont grinned. "Do you think that my Dacey wanted to prance around wearing gowns when she was twelve? She'd grown much more attached to her old, patchy chainmail than any woollen dress my poor mother had sewn her. If you wish my lady Stark, I'll speak to Lady Arya. I will be delighted to."

Ashara nodded reluctantly. She slowed her horse down a little and waited for Arya and Lady Mormont to ride ahead of her. _Should I have discouraged her from pursuing her martial interests?_ Ashara wondered uneasily. Arya had always been wild, even when she was still in her womb. Ashara smiled faintly as she recalled a moment when an unborn Arya would kick her stomach with the ferocious fury of a Baratheon. Ned had been convinced she would be a boy; Ashara was confident that it was a girl. A northern girl infused with wild wolf blood that flowed in the veins of her Stark ancestors.

However, there was the difference between a wild daughter and a rebel one. A rebel daughter…Ashara shuddered. _Don't be a fool_ , she reprimanded herself _. You will still love Arya with her wild and rebellious notions and all_. Ashara observed Lady Mormont speak to Arya softly. Other northerners rode by and smiled fondly at Arya. Ashara felt a flutter of envy in her stomach. In the south, lords wouldn't smile at little girls with swords.

Finding herself alone again, Ashara continued watching her children. _Children no longer_ , she reminded herself sadly. Robb and Lyarra were no longer children; even Arya was growing up too fast. Soon even Bran, Gwenysse, Arthur and little Rickon would leave their childhood. Her heart ached as she thought of her young sons Arthur and Rickon. Arthur would be six in a month – did he still remember her? Did he remember the songs Ashara had sang to him when he fussed around in his crib in the Winterfell nursery?

"Winter is coming." Ned appeared at Ashara's side. He did that throughout the journey from Highgarden. In a way, it was comforting. "Can you smell it Ashara?" He sniffed the cold air. "Winter is coming. Is that Lady Mormont speaking to our Arya over there? I thought you were supposed to be speaking to her."

"I am concerned about Arya," murmured Ashara. "She seemed to be more wild than before. She says she has no desire to wed or have children." To her surprise, Ned chuckled. "She even claimed she wanted to leave for Braavos," Ashara went on. "Why would she want that?"

"I would not allow that to happen," Ned assured her with a smile. "No child of mine will sail to Braavos without good reason. Do not worry, Ashara. It won't be long before we find Arya a husband and she _will_ marry."

"I have noticed something else-"

"Daenerys?"

Ashara nodded. Ned sighed and shook his head. "What is it with dragons and wolves?" he muttered almost inaudibly. "First Rhaegar and my sister and now…I cannot fathom it! I do not understand! I am aware Daenerys has grown into quite an attractive woman, but for both Robb _and_ Jon to be infatuated with her? I don't know what to do."

"Maybe we should have allowed Robb to remain with Princess Lyanna."

"No. Robb is the future Lord of Winterfell and his place is in the north. Perhaps we should have given Daenerys to the septas. I do not know what Varys would've done with her if I did not take her to Winterfell all those years ago…"

"The sooner Robb and Lyanna Baratheon wed the better," decided Ashara. "It will quell these uneasy…thoughts. How is Arya's water dancing?"

"Quite good. She has the skill, the motivation and well, size I guess. Syrio Forel praised her highly during our monthly meetings. If Arya was born a boy, she'd be a fine knight. As Arya is a girl…she'd be happier with the warrior women of Bear Island than sewing with Septa Mordane at Winterfell."

"Indeed," Ashara agreed. "A pity Lady Mormont does not have a son! If she did, Arya would have no objection to marrying and could continue her water dancing without a fear that one day it would end."

"Aye. That would have been a perfect solution."

"Have the wildling raids decreased?"

Ned raised an eyebrow at the sudden change of subject. "Not in the slightest," he answered with a slightly bemused look. "I had no idea that you are fascinated with dealing with wildlings. If you must know, there are reports that the wildling raids have actually increased over the last few months. Wildlings are bolder and the closest attacks so far were on Umber lands. Some were lucky enough to avoid capture, but those caught by Umber men…" His voice trailed off.

"What happened to them?"

"Wildlings are hunted down like animals," Ned said softly. "Greatjon Umber is a man of justice…of sorts, but when it comes to wildlings…a beheading would be seen as a merciful death. I heard talk that a few wildlings were daring enough to reach Bolton territory too. Apparently they were all captured by a Bolton hunting party and have been held at the Dreadfort since. I would rather send criminals to the Wall than kill them, but wildlings…they hate the men of the Night's Watch as much as the black brothers despise them. Lord Commander Mormont had sent a message requesting more men to man the Wall. He had sent that message once a few weeks over the last few months. The Old Bear is desperate. All I could do was write to Robert and hope more prisoners would be sent to the Wall. There aren't many younger sons willing to take the black anymore. An utter pity. I hope either Arthur or Rickon will join the Night's Watch when they are older."

Ashara nodded unwillingly. "A Stark at Winterfell and a Stark at the Wall," she whispered. Ned smiled. "Aye," he agreed. "A Stark at Winterfell and a Stark at the Wall…as it were in my forefathers' times."

"I can always bear you another son if you want two Starks at the Wall," Ashara japed. "Two men make a difference does it not?"

Ned chortled. "It would indeed." Before Ashara could respond, a shout rose in the air as a rider in Stark livery galloped towards them. The red-faced rider then slowed his horse to a halt and jumped off, bowing clumsily to Ned and Ashara. He pulled a short roll of parchment from his coat pocket and handed it to Ned with a second bow. "Milord and milady Stark," he said excitedly. "I bring you news from Winterfell! There are crannogmen at Winterfell!" Ashara's eyes widened. "Is one of them…Lord Reed?" she heard herself ask.

The rider nodded vigorously. "Aye milady Stark. Lord Howland Reed is there – with his son and daughter."

* * *

 **I decided to skip most of the journey between Highgarden and the north as it would take the characters a while, like at least over a month, to get from the Reach to Winterfell. I chose for them to stop at Castle Cerwyn as a sort of pit stop before the majority of the northern party split into separate ways to journey to their own homes.**


	60. Howland

"Father, why are we here?"

Howland Reed glanced at his daughter Meera. "It is time," he said simply. "It is time to pay a visit to our liege lord." _And my oldest friend_. "It is also time you and Jojen meet the Starks and visit Winterfell for yourself." Howland himself had not set eyes on the great northern castle in over…thirty years at least. The only time he had visited Winterfell before was when he was a young boy and his father the Lord of Greywater Watch. It was around the time of the harvest feast, a tradition that the crannogmen also participated in.

"You are thinking of the past again Father," commented Meera, her green eyes focused on him, "are you not?"

"Yes," affirmed Howland. He rose from his cushioned chair in the guest rooms Winterfell's maester, Luwin, had kindly given him.

"Do you believe Jojen's visions?" said Meera quietly. Howland looked at her. In a steady voice, he replied, "Yes, I believe him. Do you?"

"Of course Father, I always believed them, but this one…it…it is a little fanciful, do you not think? More farfetched than usual? I have believed Jojen's visions ever since we were little. What if Lord Stark thinks it a jape of sorts?"

"Dear daughter, you do not know Lord Stark. He'll not think Jojen's visions are japes of any sort. He might not believe them when we first tell him, but I'm quite certain he will deem them worthy of his attention." _Will he?_ Howland hadn't seen or spoken to his old friend in many years. What if after years of marriage to Lady Ashara Dayne and burdened with the task of ruling the north, Lord Eddard Stark had changed? Married men could change. Second sons thrusted to the position of leader could also change. _I too have changed_ , Howland contemplated with a faint smile. As a boy and young man, he'd been struck with a foolish affliction: the fear of being ridiculed simply for being a crannogman. He was certainly cured of that thanks to the She-Wolf of Winterfell.

"Shall I fetch Jojen?" His daughter's words broke his thoughts. Howland shook his head. "Let him be. He seems much happier in the godswood. You may go and join him if you wish. I will have one of my men fetch both of you when the time is ripe for introductions. Take care of your brother, Meera. If it gets too cold, ensure he comes back inside." _Drag him back if you must_ , he wanted to add. Howland bit his lip to suppress an upcoming shiver the memory of his only son languishing so pitifully on his deathbed resurfaced in his mind. Young crannogmen and the old had often been snatched from life by the dreaded greywater fever. "First you feel naught but winter's touch," an ancient wise woman had informed him. "Cold…all you feel is the cold, Lord Reed. Then slowly, your skin turns grey. Your eyes turn white as milk and you cannot breathe…but you are still alive. After three days, no more, no less, you recover…or you die. Those three days Lord Reed, are vital. For three days, your life rests in the hands of the old gods." No one could escape that awful fever once affected. Howland himself had lost many young cousins and two aunts from greywater fever.

The door suddenly opened and Maester Luwin shuffled in. "My lord Reed and Lady Meera," he said, dipping his head politely. "Lord Stark has arrived and asks to see you at once. He asks for you to bring Lord Jojen and Lady Meera too."

Without a word, Meera headed out the room. "She is fetching Jojen," Howland explained to a slightly confused maester. "Meera is under the belief…she is quite protective of her brother."

"Of course my lord." Without asking any more questions, the maester escorted Howland through the labyrinth of Winterfell's corridors and out to the courtyard. Nervousness and unease wormed around in Howland's gut as he spotted Eddard Stark dismounting his horse with a warm grin on his face. _This is wrong_ , Howland thought agitatedly. _Lord Stark should be here waiting as I dismount my horse. He is the Lord of Winterfell. This is his home…I should have waited until he returned before setting out from Greywater Watch_. Other lords would be displeased to find unexpected guests at their home; Lord Stark did not seemed unhappy.

"Lord Reed," said Lord Stark, striding towards him. "It'd been…eighteen years had it not? You look well, my friend."

"As do you my lord," Howland responded with a deep nod. "I apologise for not coming to Winterfell sooner."

"We are both fathers and busy lords Lord Reed. I am truly delighted you have come – better now than in the heart of winter."

"Indeed my lord."

Lady Stark and a litter of Starks and other young men rode quietly up to Lord Stark's side. "Do you recall my wife, the Lady Ashara Stark?" inquired Lord Stark, helping his smiling wife dismount from her horse. "These are our children, Robb, Lyarra and Arya. Some of our children," he added helpfully. "I'm certain you have heard our younger ones run and shout around Winterfell." Howland's smile froze as he caught sight of…the boy.

"This is my natural son Jon," continued Lord Stark, gesturing to the boy with a solemn expression. _By the gods that boy has inherited more Stark features than his father's._ "And my wards Domeric Bolton, Theon Greyjoy and Daenerys Sand." He turned to his wife, children and wards. "Ashara, children, this is one of my oldest friends, Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch."

"A pleasure to meet you again Lord Reed," greeted Lady Stark kindly. Eighteen years ago she was one of the most beautiful maidens in the Seven Kingdoms. She was still beautiful now, but carried a comforting air of motherliness with her. She smiled at him. "You are welcomed to stay here as long as you like, my lord." Lord Stark nodded firmly in agreement.

"Where are your children?" Lord Stark inquired.

"In your godswood my lord," Howland answered. "I'm afraid my son Jojen had taken a liking to it."

Lord Stark chuckled. "Everyone is welcome at Winterfell's godswood. I wasn't unaware your son is a devout boy."

 _Neither was I until Jojen opened his eyes the morning after that third day_. "Jojen is a good boy," said Howland tightly.

"I'm certain he is. Now Lord Reed, you must join my family and household for supper tonight as my most honoured guest. I insist. Your children too. You and I have much to discuss, Lord Reed."

"Indeed we do Lord Stark. I will be honoured to be your guest tonight."

* * *

It was a merry supper at Winterfell that night. On the dais, Howland sat alone with Lord Stark. "I will leave the two of you to chat," said Lady Stark, who elected to sit at one of the lower trestle tables with her children and wards. It had greatly pleased Howland to see the Starks speak and eat with his own children. It wasn't only in the south where crannogmen were sneered at with aversion or mockery; proud northerners also looked down on the crannogmen. Some like the Greatjon Umber _literally_ looked down on crannogmen. Unlike southroners who laughed at crannogmen for their appearance and no doubt short stature, northerners hated crannogmen for their apparent 'cowardly' methods of warfare.

"It seems my daughter Arya is engaged in an animated conversation with your daughter Meera," Lord Stark remarked, pleased. "Knowing Arya, she's always the happiest when talking about martial pursuits."

"Oh?" said Howland, who could not help but think of the hot-tempered Lyanna Stark. Lord Stark once told him that she would have carried and learnt to wield a sword if their father allowed it – which he didn't.

"She is like her aunt," Lord Stark said more softly. "Sometimes I see Lyanna in her. I never tell this to Ashara – she likes to believe Arya has inherited wolf blood and the hot Dornish spirit or something."

"That is a likely chance as well my lord."

"Call me Ned, Lord Reed."

"If you insist, you must call me Howland then. Enough of the lord business do you not agree?"

Ned Stark smiled faintly. "Aye. I had enough of that in Highgarden. It had been Lord Stark this, Lord Stark that…" He shook his head. "Southroners. They do love their titles, Howland." He and Howland looked at their children again once Lady Arya's laugh echoed throughout the Great Hall.

"I'm afraid Meera will not help educate ladylike manners here," Howland said with a short chuckle. "Not many crannogmen learn a southron lady's manners. In childhood, they learn more useful skills such as hunting and making nets."

"Do you have a maester at Greywater Watch?"

"We did…once. A most unsuitable man. My men had despised him and had oft wished him gone. This was before Robert's war, Ned. A year or two I think. When he heard I planned to wed Jyana, he tried to convince me to marry a Frey instead. For the good of the Neck, he said." Howland scowled. "Thankfully the Freys were quite horrified at that prospect."

"What happened to the maester?"

"He died of greywater fever not long after. I decided to rely on healers like my ancestors before me. Much more reliable with herbal medicine and climate of the Neck than that maester. You are fortunate to have such a good maester. If I am in need of one, I will pray the old gods will grant me a maester as able as yours." As Howland reached for his cup, he caught sight of his son Jojen staring at him with his green eyes wide with urgency. _Of course_. _His visions_. Half a day gone by and he, Howland, had neglected mentioning Jojen's visions – the main reason behind the visit to Winterfell.

"Ned," said Howland hesitantly. "How much do you know about greensight? It is an odd question I admit, but do you believe it?"

The Lord of Winterfell frowned. "Greensight? Is that not an ability to have um, prophetic dreams of sorts? Old Nan used to tell me and my siblings stories about greenseers and children of the forest when we were children. Those were stories almost all northern children are told are they not?"

"Aye. What if I tell you my son is gifted with greensight?"

Ned's frown deepened. "Your son Jojen is a greenseer?"

"Not a greenseer Ned, just a crannogman with greensight." Howland paused. "I could not believe it when Jojen told me himself. It was about five or six years ago when Jojen was gifted with greensight…from a three-eyed crow apparently. That was when Jojen was near death…from greywater fever."

"Are you sure your son spoke truth, Howland? Perhaps what he saw were…ah, deathbed delusions? I'm certain your son is an honest lad, Howland, but I admit, I find green dreams a little…um…"

"Difficult to believe?" Howland supplied. Ned nodded, biting his lip. "Would it be more believable if you speak with my son?"

"How many visions has your son dreamt? Or seen?"

"A couple, Ned. Jojen told me that it was not every night and it was usually in a pool of riddles of sorts. Jojen had dreamt a few, but he insisted this one – the one he received recently – was of the utmost importance, hence our haste here. Jojen said that you must hear of it immediately. I'm afraid all our talk of the past today had me forgetting his green dreams."

"What is the vision, Howland?"

Howland took a deep breath. "It concerns… _her_ son." His old friend stiffened at once, his grey eyes darker than ever. "Pray tell," he said finally.

"Jojen said he saw Winterfell sparkling with a thin layer of snow atop all of its turrets. The sky was grey and full of clouds and it was snowing. There were roars from the crypts…a dragon. Jojen said it was roaring in pain, not anger." Howland swallowed nervously. "At the door of the crypts was the white wolf, prowling in a circle as if ready for war. He stops moving when…when _she_ caresses his white fur. From what Jojen described to me, she had not aged, Ned. She was still young and beautiful – like she was when she died. Outside, there were more wolves ready to fight. Standing in front of them was the flayed man…that young man right there." Howland nodded in the direction of Ned's Bolton ward.

"Him…? Are you certain? Lord Bolton's heir?"

"Indeed Ned. Jojen's visions bear no lies. He described that man. Ask my son if you doubt my words."

"Do your son's visions come…true?"

"It may mean naught," said Howland quietly. "Jojen's vision is full of riddles. It might not mean what you fear. It might mean something else, but I thought that it would be better to inform you than not."

"That vision must be wrong," said Ned, glancing at Domeric Bolton. "It must. I raised Domeric since he was a boy. His betrothal to Lyarra…it was for the sake of peace between my family and the Boltons. Domeric is almost a son to me already. He is kind to everyone at Winterfell and is a young man of honour. I cannot even imagine _Domeric_ leading Bolton forces to Winterfell's doorstep."

"That is what Jojen had seen, Ned."

"Was that all, Howland? How does this concern Jon? I understand that he's the white wolf at the door of the crypts, but…"

Howland looked at him steadily in the eye. "This is a mere observation, Ned. I could not help but notice Lady Daenerys Sand has a Valyrian name and by chance, had been blessed with the traditional Targaryen features. Please tell me that you do not have two of them here." He inwardly groaned as Ned's eyes darted away a little. _By the old gods Ned_ does _have two Targaryens here at Winterfell!_ One was a Targaryen and the other half, but regardless! Howland silently berated himself. If he had only come sooner… _much, much, much_ sooner…

"Are they aware of their heritage?" whispered Howland.

Ned shook his head. "I had more than one chance to tell them but I decided not to. Call me a fool if you must, but I believe it is better for both of them to continue living their lives unaware of it. Unfortunately if it means they must remain under bastard names…at least they will be safe. If Robert ever finds out – or remembers – the truth, I fear what would become of them."

 _The king knew?_ "He only knows about Daenerys," said Ned swiftly. "Now that I think of it, I do not think he even remembers her."

"Oh? How is that possible?"

Ned shrugged. "Robert is king now, but he will always be Robert Baratheon. If it is not women who keep him occupied, no doubt it is fine food. It would be wine, but I believe his lady wife did us all a favour by somehow persuading him to stop drinking more than the normal amount."

Howland shuddered. The thought of King Robert as a drunkard king…

"Your Jojen looks old for his age," noted Ned. "Fifteen is he not?"

"Yes," Howland confirmed. He smiled as Jojen glanced up at him again with his unusually green eyes. When he was a babe, he was an almost perfect infant. Jojen rarely cried and had an odd habit of staring around quietly. Even after greywater fever almost took him, he seemed to have retained that childhood activity. "Jojen knows a number of mysterious and arcane things," Howland continued. "He says he learns about them in his dreams."

"A useful skill is it not?"

"Jojen once told me he even knows the day of his death." Uneasy silence chose to descend that moment. Deciding to give Ned a moment or two to think more of Jojen's vision, Howland casted his eyes to the Stark children. It was rare to hear a child's innocent giggle these days, especially with a long winter advancing slowly towards them like a tide of slime sliding sluggishly on top of a swamp. _When was the last time I heard a child laugh?_ Howland wondered. He had no living nieces or nephews and his closest relatives resided in their own homes. As for his own two children, Meera had giggled a little when she was an infant and Jojen not at all. It was music to Howland's ears when he heard the two youngest Starks squeal with joy and excitement as the Lady Ashara presented them gifts she must've brought back from Highgarden. The elder of the two – Arthur? – looked more Dayne than Stark with his mop of light brown hair and brilliant purple eyes. It was fitting for his parents to have named him after the late Sword of the Morning.

As for the younger, though he was a boy of three, he reminded Howland of the Wild Wolf, the late Brandon Stark, Ned's brother. There was most certainly wolf blood in the youngest Stark child like it was in the Lady Arya and their late uncle and aunt. It was said that Starks with wolf blood would lead their House to either greatness…or shame. _It's not the youngest Stark boy who will be the next Lord of Winterfell_ , Howland reminded himself. _Young Robb will be_.

"When will you return to Greywater Watch?"

"Soon," Howland answered. "Very soon. If the weather remains good, I'll leave with my children tomorrow after breakfast."

"So soon Howland?" Surprise had appeared in Ned's tone. "But…at least stay a day more. Your children have only met mine a few hours ago!"

Howland shrugged. "Winterfell is indeed a splendid castle, but I am needed at Greywater Watch." He paused. "I'll be happy to stay tomorrow though. As for my children, I do wish for them to learn about the north other than our crannogmen ways. Though they I doubt they will venture much from the Neck, it will be quite educational for them to observe and participate in other northern traditions and ways too. Perhaps Meera will enjoy learning to fight with the sword."

Ned smiled. "I will be delighted to foster your children Howland." He lifted his goblet of ale and Howland followed suit. "To old friends and renewing closer ties between the Starks of Winterfell and Reeds of Greywater Watch," Ned declared a few seconds later. The two of them clinked goblets and drank deeply. Putting his cup back down, Howland caught sight of Jojen staring at him again. Not with the sense of urgency…it was something else.

* * *

"You plan to depart without us Father."

Howland said nothing as he felt Jojen's accusing glare. When Howland looked at him, he found no reproving signs in Jojen's green eyes. "Father, I must confess that I did not tell you everything I had seen," Jojen continued. "The vision that I'd seen about Winterfell…I was there, Meera too." Howland froze. Was that the…the day Jojen was set to die?

"I will not die at Winterfell," Jojen assured him confidently. "There will be vast bloodshed here, but this is not the place I will die."

"It is not natural for you to have seen your place of death Jojen," Howland said uneasily, "nor is it normal for you to know the day you will die. Why can't you tell me the day you die, Jojen? Or the manner of death? I am your father and I will do anything to save you from death – especially a painful one. Your mother and your sister will both be devastated when you leave us."

Jojen shook his head sadly. "Father, as you said, it is unnatural for me to know the day of my death. I cannot burden you with that knowledge. It will hurt you – I cannot have that Father."

"Come back with me to Greywater Watch. You'll be safe there. Lord Stark will understand why you-"

"No Father. Lord and Lady Stark already agreed for both Meera and I to stay at Winterfell. It will be unfair to leave Meera here alone. Besides…" Howland's heart pounded faster as Jojen could not meet his eye.

"What is it, Son?" said Howland softly.

"I've known since we arrived here that…" Jojen hesitated. "Father…I know that I will never be able to return to Greywater Watch. That day we left for Winterfell, when we breakfasted on the frogs and fish with Mother…that was the last time I would ever see her. And Father…" Jojen bit his lip. "When you leave at noon, we'll never see each other again."

* * *

 **The dream Howland told Ned wasn't particularly creative but I'll try to make the next one more interesting :) I'll be interested to hear your interpretations of the dream though :D**


	61. Davos III

The sound of the waves crashing against the formidable, thick walls of Storm's End oddly comforted Davos Seaworth. There was no war or ongoing siege – only a brief respite from court. Knowing Stannis Baratheon, the short stay at Storm's End would last naught more than a week, a week and a half the longest.

In truth, Davos was grateful for a rest from courtly intrigue. Even though he'd been declared the Lord of the Rainwood and was more or less a Storm lord, other nobles at King's Landing still treated him with the faintest signs of contempt and disdain – unless they were attempting to curry Lord Stannis's favour via him.

"Father! You have returned!" Davos found himself surrounded by his wife and their three younger sons Devan, Stannis and Steffon. It felt like years since Davos had last laid eyes on them – by the Seven young boys grow fast! Devan no longer looked like the uncertain squire he once was; young Stannis in better health than he was before; and Steffon more than ready to be a page at the ripe age of eight. _I am quite fortunate to have so many happy sons_ , Davos thought as he listened to all three of them chatter rapidly and excitedly. _Lord Frey has over a dozen sons, the majority of them unhappy and other lords have no sons at all._ He absently touched the pouch around his neck again. Those bones were indeed lucky.

"I thought you would be with Lord Baratheon," said Marya, her eyes twinkling brightly. "I saw him in his solar earlier today."

"Lord Baratheon does not require my assistance today," Davos replied. "Last I heard, he is meeting with his maester and other prominent Storm lords."

"You are a prominent Storm lord now."

Davos chuckled. "So it seems. How is our castle in the Rainwood?"

"Waiting for its lord," Devan spoke with a grin. "Father, since King Robert had named you Lord of the Rainwood, you only set foot in the castle once – or could it have been twice? Anyway, Mother named Dale the acting Lord of the Rainwood. I thought it was a good idea as Dale is your heir. Is it true that Lord Stannis himself chose Allard and Matthos to be captains of two of his ships?"

"Allard has been appointed Captain of the _Lady Marya_ and Matthos is to serve as one of the crew of _Black Betha_ , one of the galleys Lord Baratheon placed under my command." He paused thoughtfully. "Both highly commendable places, aye. It will not be long before Matthos captains a galley of his own. Were you aware that Lord Stannis also gave your brother Maric a post in his fleet? Apparently Maric is now an oarmaster of the _Fury_." He looked at Devan. "One day soon you'll join the three of them too."

Devan nodded without a trace of enthusiasm.

"Do you think I will be Lord Stannis's squire one day too?" said Steffon eagerly, snatching Davos's attention away from Devan. "Dale was and so was Matthos and Maric and Devan is now." Davos was more than grateful for Stannis to voluntarily have agreed to take Dale, Matthos, Maric and Devan – each in turn – as a squire. It was not the Lord of Storm's End's duty to, yet he did. Allard was lucky enough to have squired for one of the Swann knights – a tremendous feat as not many lords or knights were at all interested in squiring a Seaworth.

"Perhaps," said Davos vaguely. Surely Lord Stannis would have his ward, Lord Robert Arryn, squire for him soon? At least after two years of fostering had done the Arryn lord some good. Over supper, Davos had noticed that the boy no longer cried or sulked – an immense improvement judging by Lord Stannis's silent gaze at him. Though it was not a nod of approval, Davos had long understood that just a quiet glance was the closest to praise Lord Stannis physically showed.

"Davos," said Marya softly. "A raven arrived a few days ago. It bore the seal of House Frey of the Crossing. Here." She handed Davos a still-sealed letter. "It was addressed to you," she said helpfully. "Dale told me before I arrived here." Davos looked at the waxed sigil of House Frey – two blue towers, united by a bridge, on a silver-grey field – and broke it. He did not even need to read the words to know why the weaselly Lord Walder Frey would write to him.

"Will you read it Father?" said Devan casually. Davos pocketed the letter. "Not now," he muttered. "Lord Frey can wait."

"Did you see _her_ , Father?"

"Devan!" Marya snapped, which was uncharacteristic of her.

"What's it?" said Davos with a frown. "Who's this woman Marya?" Marya's lips were pursed and she said nothing.

"The Red Woman!" Steffon chimed in. A chill crept up Davos's spine. "The Red Woman?" he repeated. His youngest son nodded. "That is what all the guards and Lady Baratheon's maids call her," he explained to Marya's chagrin. "I heard that a year ago or less, they were quite respectful to her and addressed her as the Lady Melisandre. Now, they call her the Red Woman. Behind her back of course." They all say that she likes burning people…for her god." Steffon wrinkled his nose. "It's horrible, burning people. So horrible. I wonder why Lord Stannis hadn't ordered her to be banished yet. Some say Lady Baratheon had fallen under her sway. She hasn't had she?"

"I do not know," said Davos honestly. "I have not seen Lady Baratheon in quite some time. She did not attend last night's supper. A sore belly I think."

Marya's lips tightened. "We will leave you in peace for an hour or so," she said, ushering their sons to the door. "Will we see you at supper tonight?"

"Aye. It will be just us," Davos promised. "You, me and our sons." Not all of our sons. Davos looked at Devan. "Write to Dale," he instructed, knowing Devan was far more literate than he would ever be. "Tell him to join us at once."

Supper had been a quiet affair. Quiet, yet cosy. As Stannis still hadn't called for Davos's blunt opinions, Davos was free to dine with only his family, which he had not done for a long time. Throughout the meal, Davos found himself chuckling at japes uttered by his sons and he enjoyed listening to them recount exciting tales of their lives at either Storm's End or the Rainwood. It was not long before Davos even told them stories of his own rather uneventful time at King's Landing. After supper ended, Davos returned his attention to Lord Frey's letter.

"Devan," Davos said quietly. "Can you read this for me please? It seems Walder Frey had forgotten that I cannot…read."

"You must learn to read and write, Father," said Devan encouragingly.

 _I do not have the time or the courage to ask_ , Davos thought regretfully. "I'll try one day," he said uncomfortably. Devan smiled and broke the wax seal quickly. It did not take him long to read it and return the letter. "Did you agree to accepting a Frey girl as a good-daughter?" he questioned.

Davos frowned. Did he? "I might have," he admitted. "Now I think of it, I do ah, recall Lord Walder suggest a match. I cannot remember if I agreed to it or not. I'd be foolish to have refused wouldn't I?"

Devan looked at him, his brown eyes revealing apprehension. "Well, um, a few of Lord Frey's many sons and grandsons are journeying here now with a number of their female Frey relations for well, an obvious purpose do you not agree? The Lord of the Crossing wishes to join his House with those of Storm lords."

Why? Lord Walder Frey was a River lord – would it not benefit him better if he allied himself with other River lords or lords of the Westerlands or the North?

"His second wife was a Swann," Devan reminded him, "and his heir's first wife had also been a Swann."

"When did knowing Lord Frey's wives become part of your education?"

Devan grinned. "It didn't. Have you not heard, Father? There is a new, popular song circulating around the guards' quarters."

"Lord Frey will be most displeased." However, Davos was curious. "However I am in the mood for a new song. How does it go?"

Obligingly, Devan sang:

 _"_ _The Late Lord Frey,_

 _The Late Lord Frey,_

 _A husband of eight_

 _…_ _and more!_

 _The Late Lord Frey,_

 _The Late Lord Frey,_

 _Husband of a Royce,_

 _…_ _who is dead!_

 _The Late Lord Frey,_

 _The Late Lord Frey,_

 _A Royce and now a Swann,_

 _…_ _who've both died!"_

Devan continued singing. _He's quite a fair singer_ , Davos contemplated. _I didn't know he was taught singing._ He knew very well that Devan had learnt alongside a few of Lord Stannis's own children when it came to letters and numbers. Singing? Davos had not expected that. Though many noble boys learnt music, Davos could not imagine the grim-faced Lord of Storm's End assigning his children and wards a singing tutor. For the girls perhaps, but surely that would be Lady Baratheon's duty? Then again, knowing Lord Stannis, he wouldn't want anyone interfering in his plans. Truthful, blunt interference maybe, but the sharp words of his wife? No. It was highly unlikely Lady Baratheon had a say in her children's education apart from her daughters' sewing sessions.

"When will the Freys arrive?" Davos inquired.

Devan shrugged. "Soon I guess. Does Lord Stannis know?"

"No doubt he does. If what you read was true, our sly Lord Frey seems to want more than just a Seaworth good-son. He would die of happiness and glee if one of his daughters become the next Lady of Storm's End." It was more surprising that the ancient Lord of the Crossing was still alive. "I will speak to Lord Stannis still," Davos continued. "It's better he's aware of it. The Freys'll expect a welcome party when they arrive." With a sigh, he left Devan to search for Lord Stannis who had been holed inside his solar since his arrival. What could be so fascinating to him? Most certainly not a woman. As he climbed up a set of stairs, his eyes had slid to the window. That was when he caught sight of a familiar sight.

Though now a maiden of fourteen, Lady Shireen was running quietly through the godswood. Davos smiled sadly. Poor girl. On impulse, Davos turned and made his way to the Storm's End godswood. When Lord Stannis was merely the Lord of Storm's End, Davos had spent some of his time with her. Lady Shireen had been a clever child and had once asked him, "Lord Davos, why does Mother despise me? She never smiles at me nor embraces me." It almost broke Davos's heart hearing those words. How was he to tell her-

"Lord Davos!" A smile spread on Lady Shireen's face as she noticed him. "So it is indeed true! You have finally returned!"

Davos chuckled. "You make me sound like a war hero milady, coming home at last! You've grown taller milady. More beautiful too." It was the truth. Though the scars of greyscale remained, Lady Shireen had bloomed into a pretty young lady, and looked every inch a Baratheon.

Lady Shireen blushed and laughed. It was nice to hear her laugh. _She was once afraid of laughing_ , Davos remembered. _She had said that her mother would thrash her if she heard her singing or laughing_. "You are almost a woman grown milady," Davos remarked with a broad smile. "I am pleased to see you in good health. The fresh air agrees with you here?" Lady Shireen nodded, her blue eyes sparkling. "I heard you read everyday," Davos commented. "What books are you reading now Lady Shireen? Stories about Duncan the Tall again?"

"I have not read about Duncan the Tall in months," said Lady Shireen, leading him to the weirwood heart tree that had been carved over a millennia ago with a solemn expression rather similar to Lord Stannis's. "I've recently decided to read more about my mother's family, House Lannister. I wrote to Uncle Tyrion and he most helpfully sent me two books: _The Lions of Casterly Rock_ and _A True History of House Lannister_. Uncle Tyrion said the latter was more factual and truthful but I might find the former more entertaining to read. It is an amusing book," Shireen added. "It reminded me a lot of Uncle Tyrion."

"Perhaps Lord Tyrion wrote it?" Davos suggested. Lady Shireen nodded with a thoughtful expression on her face. "It _does_ seem my uncle's style," she affirmed. "I cannot imagine him settling down to write a book though."

"Neither can I milady." The thought of the Imp of Casterly Rock at a table with a quill and stack of blank parchments was hard to imagine. "If you don't mind me saying milady, you will always be more your father's daughter."

Lady Shireen smiled serenely. "Thank you Lord Davos. Are you looking for my father, my lord? He is in his chambers I believe."

"Thank you milady."

"I must thank you too, Lord Davos. Since you left to advise my father a couple of years ago, Devan had kept me company in his spare time. When he was not in the training yard or the schoolroom, he kept me company in my chambers and he was kind enough to fetch me books from time to time." She lowered her voice. "I must thank him too. About half a year ago, a couple of months more maybe, I met Steffon and Cassana." Davos's eyes widened in shock. "Mother doesn't know," she assured him hurriedly. "Only Devan, Cassana, Steffon and I – now you too – know about it. It was thanks to Devan that I met two of my siblings. The twins and I still try to see each other as much as we can, but with Mother always prowling…"

"Why must you ah, thank me for Devan?" asked Davos, puzzled.

Shireen looked at him, slightly confused. "You told him to keep me company of course! Didn't you?" Davos remembered telling Devan not to leave Shireen alone in complete isolation…did Devan do much more then that? Delivering books and even uniting siblings…that did not sound like the actions of a boy only following his father's orders. They sounded more like-

"It is my sister Myrcella's seventh name day in a few weeks' time," murmured Lady Shireen almost longingly. "Is it odd that in my fourteen years, I'd never once spoken to her? Her, Robert or Tommen? Am I a stranger to them? Do they know I exist? When I ask Devan if he knows – he sometimes trains with Steffon when he has time – he'd never answer. Neither would Steffon and Cassana." She hesitated. "Do you think I can attend Myrcella's name day celebrations? Amidst the crowds of course. Mother will never allow me to be part of the family when we watch the tourneys and eat in the name day feast."

"Ask your father," Davos encouraged. "He loves you. I know he does."

Shireen smiled. "Thank you Lord Davos. Will you stay here for long?"

"Perhaps. It depends how long Lord Baratheon plans to stay here milady. Once your lord father decides to return to office, I will leave with him."

Shireen nodded understandingly. "You are my father's most faithful man, Lord Davos. He is lucky to have you in his service."

For the first time since his arrival at Storm's End, Davos was summoned to the lord's solar. _Why now?_ Davos wondered as he climbed up the flight of stairs. _Why in the name of the Seven now?_ If he was a gambling man like Tyrion Lannister, he would wager that Stannis was in one of his brooding moods again and wished to complain more about his brothers. _"Robert is an utterly bloody fool giving Renly Dragonstone."_ Davos could imagine Stannis grumble. It would be considered odd if Stannis Baratheon did _not_ rant about at least one of his two brothers.

Devan stood waiting at the solar door as Davos approached. Now that Stannis was back, no doubt Devan would return to his squire duties. As Stannis's squire, Devan should've went with him to King's Landing, but for some queer reason, he didn't. Stannis had not offered a reply either. Apart from Devan, Lord Stannis had a number of other squires and pages who _did_ accompany Stannis to Storm's End from King's Landing. _What are their names?_ Ah yes. Bryen Farring was one Lord Stannis collected from King's Landing. House Farring was a noble House from the Crownlands and from what Davos heard, had only sons. _A blessing or a curse?_ He only knew of one Farring girl, the seventh Lady Frey according to the song Devan had sang for him earlier. Regardless, she had died after birthing her husband six children. What was House Farring's motive in asking Stannis to squire Bryen? In hopes Stannis would be most pleased with Bryen and wed him to one of his three daughters? Even if Stannis was satisfied with Bryen as his squire, Davos doubted he would want him as a good-son. All in all, Stannis would wed his children off to benefit House Baratheon, not to reward a squire.

Another of Lord Stannis's squires that Davos knew was Horas Redwyne, elder twin to Hobber Redwyne and the heir of the Arbor. Even now, Stannis grasped to the eighteen year old grudge against the Tyrells and Redwynes. The only reason Stannis would take Lord Redwyne's heir as a squire seemed more to be the act of reassurance than the task of mending bridges between the two Houses.

"Father," Devan greeted with a tinge of unease. "The…Lady Melisandre is with Lord Baratheon in his solar."

Davos frowned. "What is she doing there?"

Devan shrugged. "I am just Lord Baratheon's squire, Father. Well, one of them anyway. Maybe Horas would know more." Highly unlikely. Lord Stannis wouldn't reveal a great deal of information in front of a Redwyne – any Redwyne. "Would you like me to announce you?" asked Devan.

"Do you always announce those summoned?"

"Yes." Devan blushed. "You see, I usually do not announce visitors but a couple of days ago when Lady Baratheon came, she was furious I did not announce her. I thought it would be better now to announce everyone. Lord Baratheon didn't tell me to stop when I first started."

"I see."

Devan tapped on the solar door and pushed it open. "Lord Davos Seaworth of the Rainwood is here my lord," he announced. Davos bowed once he stepped into Lord Stannis's solar. The lord's solar was a familiar sight to Davos. The weirwood table was still there near the window; Stannis's chair remained without a plump cushion for comfort (neither were the two other chairs present); and the shelves remained stuffed with books and scrolls that were solely for the eyes of the Lord of Storm's End. Stannis himself stood gazing out the window, something that was done often at King's Landing too. Everything would have remained the same if it was not for the beautiful and slender woman sitting on one of the chairs in front of the table. She turned her head gracefully and glanced at Davos, a smile slowly appearing on her heart-shaped face framed with abundant long locks the colour of burnished copper. "Lord Davos," she spoke with an exotic accent that he could not place. "The Onion Knight. We meet at last."

"You must be Lady Melisandre milady," said Davos stiffly, nodding at her. The Red Woman's smile only broadened. "I must be," she affirmed. Davos returned to look at Stannis. "Milord, you summoned me?"

"If I did not you would not be here," came Stannis's blunt response. Davos said nothing. Stannis walked back to his seat and table. He gestured for Davos to sit in front of him. "You must be wondering why Lady Melisandre is still here," he said to Davos gruffly. "If I had my way, she would've been banished from Storm's End. However, she had brought me disconcerting news." He picked up a massive book from his neat stack on the side of his table and pushed it in front of Davos. "Read it," he ordered. A lump formed in Davos's throat as he stared at the long string of characters on the leather cover in front of him. "I cannot read milord," Davos said at last. "I never had-"

"The book is called _The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms_ ," said Stannis, impatiently. He opened it and flipped to the middle and ran his fingers down the page. "It lists all the Baratheons of the past and also now in the present," he said shortly. "Other noble houses too of course. The book also provides brief descriptions of each lord and lady's features. Every lord and lady born in House Baratheon were black of hair and blue of eyes. I am, Robert is and so is Renly and the majority of the children." His voice tightened. "Also, according to this ponderous book, even the offspring of a Baratheon and a Lannister would too result in a child black of hair and blue of eyes. It seems Lord Seaworth, my lady wife has some explaining to do."

* * *

 **I'm glad you enjoyed reading Howland's POV! I love writing POVs from minor characters and currently I enjoy writing in new POVs rather than old, so I hope you can bear with me for a while! I thought it would be nice to return to Storm's End and you can consider this chapter a reintroduction if you like. Any POVs from Storm's End you want to read in? I'm happy for suggestions.**


	62. Stannis I

As Stannis stared out the window of his solar, he felt a pang of jealousy. It was rare he would experience jealousy – even more so that it related to the king. _How long have I called him my king? Was there ever a day I called him brother?_ Perhaps he did when he was a child; perhaps he'd never did. Either way, it mattered not – Robert Baratheon was first his lord king and second a brother. _I will serve him as I would any king_. Unlike those lickspittles and fools at court, Stannis knew where his duty and loyalty lied.

Stannis grinded his teeth and clenched his fists as his eyes drifted over to that damned book on his table. If he still believed the Seven, he would've cursed them. If the Lady Melisandre spoke the truth…Stannis inwardly shuddered. How many are not my children? He could not help wonder. There was no doubt Shireen was his – she was conceived on their horrid wedding night after all. The twins? It was more a Lannister trait that they were twins, but apart from that, neither of them seemed to bear a trace of Lannister in their features or behaviour. That was quite a relief. Young Robert? Murky waters. _Very_ murky waters…

 _Why must I be saddled with a sinful whore?_ Stannis thought darkly. _Have I not done my duty enough?_ He never cared smallfolk detested him – let them all run to the king and foolish Renly with open arms! The smallfolk's adoration was naught in comparison to fulfilling duty and justice. No, it was not smallfolk's love for the king Stannis envied. It was the king's wife.

Being near women was…uncomfortable. Stannis loved his mother; if he had a sister, he would love her too – it was his duty to. Oddly, he also admired his Tully good-sister Queen Catelyn. Was it because she was the almost literal persona of a woman's virtues? Perhaps it was because she did not look like a seductive whore like his own wife and Renly's new bride. Stannis found himself grinding his teeth once again as he thought about Renly.

"My lord, what is it you wish me to do?"

Stannis glanced at the speaker, the Lady Melisandre of Asshai. Septons would no doubt curse him for taking the counsel of a servant of the Red God or whoever he is, but Stannis did not care. One of his core principles was to judge a man – or woman – by their character, usefulness and nature. He did not care if he listened more to a common farmer than say his good-father Lord Lannister. Names meant naught to him. In his entire life, Stannis had only found one man truly worthy of a knighthood…and that man was Davos Seaworth. _What use is a noble knight who'd rather save his own skin than a helpful former smuggler?_

"Nothing," said Stannis shortly. Something about Lady Melisandre's excessive desire to help him was rather irksome. "As of this moment, only you, Lord Davos and I are aware of this matter. I would rather it remain private until I'm ready to confront my in-laws. I will not be so foolish in accusing Lord Tywin's daughter of adultery with just a book." He shot that very book a murderous glance.

"With the Lord of Light on your side, you have naught to fear my lord," the red priestess responded automatically. Stannis gave her an exasperated look. "All the gods mean nothing to me," he muttered. "The Faith of Seven, your Lord of Light, the old gods, the Drowned God…" Where were those bloody deities that very day _Windproud_ sank in Shipbreaker Bay within the sights of Storm's End? Where on earth were those gods when the wild sea claimed the lives of all those aboard the vessel save the fool Patchface? Stannis shut his eyes. _Now is not the time to think of the past_. No. It was better to leave the past in the past.

"Milord, if you wait too long, it will be too late."

Stannis snapped back to the present. The Onion Knight was speaking again. It was his honesty that was quite refreshing. "This book has plenty of evidence in it milord," Lord Davos went on. "Baratheons have wedded Lannisters in the past – why should their features be much different?"

"It is young Robert I am uncertain about," grunted Stannis. "Shireen is mine as are the twins. Myrcella and Tommen are without a doubt, _hers_. My second son…I do not know. He acts like the king did during his youth yet he does not have blue eyes. The maester says it is a mix between blue and green."

"Milord…" Lord Davos faltered.

"Speak on!" Stannis barked.

"This is a rather ah, delicate question…"

"I believe Lord Davos wishes to ask if you recall the location and year you and Lady Baratheon…created young Robert," supplied Lady Melisandre, without one embarrassed blush. Lord Davos swallowed and nodded.

Beads of sweat dotted the back of Stannis's neck. "It's not as if I write down all the nights we had spent together," said Stannis irritably. "I did my duty and went to her chambers almost every night before she became pregnant with Shireen. I'd also did my duty in the bedchamber rather frequently until she birthed the twins. After that, it was more or less once a fortnight. I had my heir did I not? If it wasn't for the king jeering about…I would have been more than satisfied with Shireen as my heir if I had no sons."

"Can you not venture a guess my lord?"

Stannis sighed. Young Robert was a boy of ten…if memory served, nine or ten months before young Robert's birth at King's Landing, he was at Storm's End. He had still been Master of Ships, but…

"Milord?" Davos prompted.

"I do not remember at all," said Stannis stiffly. "I would prefer if neither of you attempt to speak of that particular matter again."

"As you wish my lord," said Lady Melisandre smoothly. She rose from her seat and dipped her head. "I sense you yearn for a moment alone with Lord Davos do you not? If you need me my lord, you know where to find me." Her red robes had swished around her like a flickering flame as she left the solar. Stannis waited for the weirwood door to close before sitting back down. For the last hour, all he had done was listen, speak, rise from his seat, sit back down, wander to the window, stare out that window…

"I married a whore," Stannis stated flatly.

"You married a Lannister of Casterly Rock milord," said Davos patiently.

"The whore of Casterly Rock," Stannis corrected. "Cersei may bear the name of Lannister, but in truth, she is an adulterous whore." If his whoring wife had slept with any man that was not her blood, he would have shipped her off to the Silent Sisters or the septas; what she did was much worse.

"What of your children milord?"

Stannis loathed that question. Not only did he lose a daughter and a son but he lost two highly prized bargaining chips for suitable potential alliances. Excluding Shireen who was marked with greyscale and Steffon who was betrothed to Lady Alyssa Arryn, all he had was Cassana, who was much too valuable to waste on an ordinary match with a Storm lord – no, Cassana was destined to wed into a Great House of Westeros. As for young Robert, many lords would still wish to have him as a good-son, but the boy himself had expressed a desire to be a knight of Prince Orys's Kingsguard in the future when both of them were men grown. Stannis had no objection to that; there were plenty of Baratheons to carry on the House name. _At least if Robert joins the Kingsguard he will lose his rights to Storm's End_ , Stannis thought. In a way a loss, but it was a secure move considering circumstances.

"You cannot blame Lady Myrcella and Tommen for their mother's crime," the Onion Knight then said. "If it pleases you milord, would it not solve your problem if young Tommen joins the Night's Watch when he is of age and Lady Myrcella to the septas? I hear it is common for younger sons to be black brothers and unwed daughters to be septas."

"It is," Stannis admitted. There was also the succession to worry about. What if Steffon dies young and without sons of his own? No lord would follow a mere girl – especially one blemished with greyscale. "Tommen must join the Night's Watch when he is of age," he said, more decidedly than before. "I had plans for Myrcella, which I still intend to follow, but if she happens to inherit the madness of incest, I will send her to the Silent Sisters. I will not have bastards in the succession line. I will not stand a Lannister born of incest as Lord of Storm's End if accidents are to occur…" Lord Davos shuddered. "No one is to know," Stannis warned. "Especially Lady Baratheon. Lions have claws and I will not be scratched to death by one. Oh she is a stag by name, but she had never been a stag."

Lord Davos nodded. "Aye milord. What of Lord Lannister?"

Stannis had once heard that his good-father made plans to leave Casterly Rock to either Robert or Tommen…on the condition that one or both of them are to be fostered at Casterly Rock to, "learn the ways of ruling the Westerlands," the Lion of Lannister explained. Though Lady Baratheon was enthusiastically in favour of sending Tommen – now for obvious reasons – Stannis had outright refused. "You have a son," he had responded, referring to the Imp Tyrion. "My sons are stags – they will be raised as Baratheons of Storm's End." He had not spoken a sole word to Lord Tywin since.

"Truth is more important than Lord Lannister," Stannis told the waiting Davos. Some might call him a fool for thinking truth above the proud Lord Tywin, but he did not care. He was already disliked by the majority of the smallfolk and Renly's frivolous friends – what was the harm in earning the hate of a few more? "He will discover his daughter's treachery soon enough," Stannis continued, "when he's at King's Landing on the order of the Hand of the King. He'll not dare refuse. Though he is the Lord of the Westerlands, he is still the king's subject and he must obey a summoning from court."

"What if he declares war milord?"

 _A high chance he will_. "Let him come," said Stannis, uttering each word slowly, his eyes darkening by the second. "Let him fight for his whore daughter's honour – it's his right. Treasonable considering I am the king's brother and Hand though. Perhaps Lord Tywin Lannister is under the belief that he has the right to trudge around declaring wars without consequences." He snorted scornfully. "The lions of Lannister are not above truth and justice. Nobody is."

Silence slowly slipped into the solar like a snake. "May I offer you a suggestion milord?" said Lord Davos hesitantly. Stannis nodded. Davos looked distressed as he said, "Take a few Lannister boys hostage milord. It is not war yet, but if it does come to war…it is better to force Lord Lannister into a parley than allow all those innocent smallfolk die in the slaughter. Lord Lannister's men are all cruel, milord. The Clegane brothers for one, House Lorch another. None will hesitate to kill and rape smallfolk as well as pillage their homes for food and goods – what little they have milord. In wars, the smallfolk will always suffer the most."

"Lord Tywin would rather a few cousins dead than his legacy tarnished."

"The Lannisters cannot march here without passing through the Riverlands or the Reach milord, and you have alliances with both."

" _House Baratheon_ has alliances with both," Stannis corrected automatically. "It is the king who has a Tully wife and Renly a Tyrell bride."

"No matter milord – the Lannisters cannot declare war and march without an invasion of the Riverlands or the Reach. If they do, all of the Seven Kingdoms will be against them."

"Not all of them Lord Seaworth. The Martells despise both the Lannisters and my House – they will remain neutral. Lady Arryn does not appreciate two of her children fostering here – the Vale too will remain neutral. The North often stays away from southron wars as do the Greyjoys who might launch raids for the sake of it." Stannis scowled. "Criminals and plunderers the lot of them. At most, there are the Crownlands, the Reach, the Riverlands and the Stormlands against those Lannisters if there is war. Lord Lannister will know it's better to negotiate." Lord Davos did not look particularly convinced. "We'll discuss more of this later," said Stannis, suddenly irritated. "I will be…with my children if you need me."

Ignoring the Onion Knight's rather astonished expression, Stannis stalked out of the solar and towards the wing of bedchambers. _When was the last time I have visited my children on my own?_ Stannis wondered. At King's Landing he wrote to his children once a fortnight and before he was appointed Hand of the King, he'd visited his children every morning – it had been part of his morning routine after breakfasting on a bowl of oats topped with a single fried egg, a plate of salad with one large slice of bacon and a cup of lemon water followed by an early meeting in his solar with the maester or the steward or Lord Davos – for a short chat, mostly regarding their education and health.

When the corridor of bedchambers came into view, Stannis immediately went to climb the set of stairs that led to Shireen's chamber. If he had his way, Shireen would not be so isolated from the rest of the family. "Damn that woman," Stannis muttered to himself. Before he had left for King's Landing, he had made plans for Shireen to have her chambers next to Cassana's. He was furious when he heard a few weeks later that his proud wife had given the rooms to Myrcella instead and sent Shireen back into the lonely chamber far away from sight.

Stannis knocked at the door and it flew open. He was taken back as his eldest daughter greeted him with a broad beam. Shireen's smile froze as she saw him. It was as if she expected him to be someone else. "Good morning Shireen," Stannis said awkwardly. "You are well?"

"Father," the poor girl murmured, stepping back. She had grown considerably – in height, size and beauty – since he last saw her. "I did not expect to see you at all," she said nervously. "Lord Davos said you were busy…" _Ah_. She had spoken to Lord Davos quite recently. Without a word, Stannis stepped into her chamber. He grunted with disapproval as he noted how small it was. _This is not the room of a daughter of House Baratheon_ , he thought, his eyes sweeping at the sight of all the furniture and comforts present. He didn't believe in items of comfort and carried none, but he remembered his mother did when she was alive.

"Are you displeased with me Father?" Shireen's worried voice broke his train of thought. "Is it because I spend too much time with Devan? He means no harm, Father. Honest. All he does is amuse me with castle gossip and keep me company from time to time." Her blue eyes widened. "I know you do not approve of gossip Father, but I am so deprived from news that…that gossip is all I have. I promise I will never listen to gossip again if it pleases you Father." Stannis frowned slightly. Devan Seaworth? He was left behind at Storm's End to continue his education in both the classroom and swordplay, not spend time with Shireen…though she was in need of a companion or two.

"You will have new chambers, next to Cassana," said Stannis promptly. "I will have all your items and clothes moved to a new, larger chamber immediately. It's an embarrassment, this room. You are a lady of House Baratheon – not even the natural child of a Baratheon lord would have such…inadequate chambers such as this one. Was it Lady Baratheon's doing?"

Shireen nodded, stunned.

"Lady Baratheon demands a lavish tourney to celebrate Myrcella's name day," Stannis said with a scowl. "A waste of coin if you ask me. However, if that blasted tourney does occur, you will attend. Regardless of what your mother says."

"You mean it?" asked Shireen, excitement dancing in her eyes.

Stannis nodded and stepped back out. "You are still my daughter after all," he said gruffly, patting her on the shoulder. _My firstborn too_. He glanced at the scars on her cheek. Her disfigurement only increased his affection for her. Most nobles would despise a child with deformities. _Shireen was strong_ , Stannis thought. _She was strong to survive greyscale_. Many who were struck with greyscale died – the majority did. He was proud to have a strong daughter.

 _Shireen is a true Baratheon_.

* * *

Dinner was another silent event. From his seat at the head of the table, Stannis prodded his serving of chicken with his dagger. He was in no mood to eat with so much on his mind, but it was his duty as Lord of Storm's End and head of House Baratheon of Storm's End to appear at family dinners once in a while.

Sitting at the opposite end of the table, Lady Cersei Baratheon glowered at him, stabbing her portion of chicken ferociously. Stannis's lips twitched as he watched her cut a piece violently, a bit of sauce flying out and landing on Tommen's nose. Sitting in a row at one side of the table were Shireen, Steffon and Cassana; on the other were young Robert, Myrcella and Tommen. Young Robert had looked quite bewildered that evening when Stannis told him he was to sit next to Myrcella and Tommen instead of his usual place beside the twins. _It is time Shireen is a part of this damned family once and for all. I should have done something about it years ago. Yes, I should have._

"You will not wed off my daughter like a heifer."

Stannis arched an eyebrow as Lady Baratheon spat out those words as if they were poison. "You will not sell my daughter as if she's a bloody cow for sale!" she repeated angrily. "Do you hear me?"

"I heard you perfectly," said Stannis calmly, putting down his dagger. "I do not have intentions to sell _any_ of our daughters like cattle. Who could have given you such an idea like that, Lady Baratheon?"

"You plan to wed Myrcella to that squire of yours!"

"To Devan Seaworth?" Stannis snorted.

"Not the Onion Knight's son! Horas Redwyne! I know, Stannis. I know the king and your lords all want your ridiculous grudge against the Redwynes and Tyrells to cease and you plan to do so by selling Myrcella to them!"

Stannis eyed her coldly. "You have been listening to rumours and gossip again Lady Baratheon. I have no intention of betrothing Myrcella to Horas." Especially as Myrcella was no trueborn child of his and the Redwynes would be furious that their heir was engaged to a bastard. "I suggest you dedicate more of your time to charity and needlework like all highborn women do," Stannis added. "Your utter reliance on gossip and rumour…" He shook his head. "Unladylike my lady. Not a good example for our daughters either."

Lady Baratheon scowled. "I will not catch a disease from beggars."

"You will not catch a disease from beggars my lady. Tomorrow, you and all our daughters will go and give food to the poor. I do my duty and you should too. No more gossip, you understand?"

"You are not my father, _my lord_."

Stannis stood up. "I have work to attend to. My lady." He dipped his head and strode out. As he expected, Lord Davos was waiting outside. "I hope it went well, Lord Davos," Stannis muttered quietly. "Did you find it?" Lord Davos nodded, his eyes flickering with unease. "There is naught to worry yourself about Lord Davos. I told you that already," said Stannis with a jolt of irritation. "How many have you found in Lady Baratheon's chambers?"

"Not many milord," Davos admitted as they began walking from the Great Hall to the solar. "She must have burnt many of her letters."

"As I expected. Lady Melisandre said I'd be rid of the adulterous woman at the end of this month. She claimed she saw it in the flames."

"I did not search thoroughly though milord, I must admit. I was afraid-"

"Yes, yes," Stannis cut through. "We do not want to rouse her suspicions. How many did you find?"

"Devan found it, milord." Lord Davos handed him a folded piece of parchment. "It is not the original – Devan copied it out. We thought it would be better to have the original left as it was."

Stannis nodded. "It'll not be long now," he said quietly. Tomorrow he would go to Lady Baratheon's rooms and search them himself. It mattered not how smart she was at hiding and burning all of her incriminating letters – adulterers would always leave a guilty stain somewhere in their possessions.

* * *

 **I planned to upload this a few days earlier, but I was busy with schoolwork, so my apologies! I thought it would be interesting to write this in Stannis's perspective - a challenge! Personally, I believe Stannis has more emotion in him than he reveals. The next chapter will be back in the north.**


	63. Jojen

_He felt the gaze of Winterfell's heart tree again. Like before, it was quiet. Not one bird's twitter could be heard. "They are coming…" the leaves of the tall trees hissed warningly. "They are coming…"_

 _The trees of Winterfell would never talk…unless it was dire. The scene shifted. It was no longer the heart tree staring at him. He glanced around and met the stone eyes of the Lords of Winterfell. Tomb after tomb…the furthest being Torrhen Stark the King Who Knelt and the closest Lord Rickard Stark. Lord Rickard Stark had a stern face similar to Lord Eddard Stark's, but much sterner. At the foot of Rickard's statue was a stone direwolf. A roar pierced the air. He turned and saw-_

 _He was near the door of the crypts now. He ran his thin fingers down the ancient door. Made from ironwood, it was old and heavy, decorated with the sole engraving of a howling wolf. He almost jumped with fright as something large and very furry brushed against his knee. He looked down and sighed with relief. It was only a wolf having a good sniff of him._

 _"The white wolf…" the wind whispered as it snaked around him. "The white wolf is not alone…" No it was not. Other wolves roamed the dark crypts. The smallest of the litter, a little brown wolf, paced impatiently near the bottom of one of the stone statues; the pups, one with dark brown fur and the other a lighter shade of brown, both whimpered and huddled in a cold corner, too frightened to move; a third with the darkest blue eyes pooling with fear, sadness, apprehension and worry to name a few, limped forward – one of its legs was twisted and mangled; and there was one a couple of statues away – the mother wolf._

 _Before he could think, the vision changed again._

 _Another wolf…a weeping wolf surrounded by stags and lions in a field glittering with golden roses. "Wolves do not bode well in the south," a voice murmured in his ear. His father's grave voice. "Remember that, my son. The south is never – and will never be – kind to wolves. What is born in the north should stay there."_

 _"What is born in the north should stay there…" the statues of the old Kings in the North and Lords of Winterfell seemed to chant in unison. "What is born in the north should stay in the north…what is born in the north should stay in the north…what is born in the north should stay there…" It was almost like an ancient mantra of sorts. It sounded so familiar...and it was not because Father had said it to him before. The wise folk of the Neck also said it from time to time._ What's born in the north must stay in the north _. He covered his ears as the white wolf lifted his head and howled – it was the most pained and tormented howl he had ever heard._

 _It was the cry of despair; of anguish too. The wolf turned and stared at him, one single tear falling from its ruby red eyes…_

* * *

Jojen's green eyes flew open.

 _What is born in the north should stay in the north._

Another green dream. With a quiet yawn, Jojen pushed the blanket of fur from him and padded across the room to the high narrow window. Winterfell was the most magnificent castle of stone and granite he had even seen or stepped foot in, but it felt like a cage. The bed he slept in was large in size, the blanket and pillow comfortable and soft, yet he already missed his own bed of woven rushes back at home. In the Neck, a bed of woven rushes was already considered a luxury. With the curtains drawn back, a light autumn breeze touched Jojen gently on the cheek as a mother would to her child. _Winter is coming_ , Jojen thought absently. _Winter's already on its way._ He glanced at his old satchel on the chair close to him. It was a habit of the crannogmen to travel light – what use is a trunk of silk and clothes to the dangers of nature?

Since Jojen first saw the sight of Winterfell in a green dream, he'd known that a journey to Winterfell was inevitable. Living there as a ward…he suspected that it would occur, but so suddenly…

The door opened and Robb Stark came in. "Breakfast is ready if you are feeling hungry," the Stark heir said awkwardly. "We ah, weren't sure what you and Lady Meera eat for breakfast…" He hesitated. "Why don't the two of you go and tell our cook Gage about your favourite dishes? He is an excellent cook."

"Thank you," said Jojen quietly. "I am happy to try anything new."

Robb nodded. "Did you have a good sleep, Jojen?"

It was Jojen's turn to nod. "It was…good." Was there another word to describe a well-rested sleep touched by a green dream?

"Theon also caught you and Meera a few frogs," Robb added sheepishly. "Gage has never cooked frogs before, but he um, tried cooking it too. Perhaps after you eat it you can give him some ideas for ah, some frog dishes? I'm sorry if it sounds at all rude. We never had many crannogmen guests at Winterfell for long. I don't recall Lords of Winterfell fostering crannogmen children either. I know that one King in the North had taken the last Marsh King's daughter as his wife though. I'd be happy to take you to the Great Hall now if you want."

"That is kind of you Robb Stark." Jojen paused. "King Rickard Stark's wife was Jyanna of the crannogmen," he put in helpfully. "My mother was named after her. Some of my cousins like to believe we were descended from the Marsh Kings. We do not know for sure though."

Robb smiled. "If you are descended from the Marsh Kings, that would make us very distant cousins would it not?"

"It would indeed." Karstarks, Manderleys and Umbers and perhaps the Royces of Runestone would all claim closer kinship to the Starks. "Have your met any of your other Stark cousins?" Jojen asked curiously as he and Robb started heading off to the Great Hall.

Robb shook his head. "My uncle Benjen used to visit when I was little. The last time I saw him was…I cannot even remember when it was. Father often said that we have Stark cousins in the mountains, but we never visited them and they had never ventured from their homes in the mountains. I hope one day I'll meet a few of them. Have you met any of your cousins?"

"Some. My father doesn't much, but I do. Meera does as well."

"What is it like being heir of Greywater Watch?"

Jojen's green eyes fixed themselves on Robb. "Do you mean to inquire what's it like being a crannogman heir?"

Robb bit his lip. "My apologies if I have offended you."

Jojen shrugged. "You have not offended me, Robb Stark. Many people are quite curious about the lives of crannogmen yet are too embarrassed to ask."

"I…see. Do you have many duties to attend to at Greywater Watch?"

"As much as any heir I believe. What duties do you attend to?"

The heir of Winterfell thought for a moment. "I suppose my lessons are almost at an end – lessons with Maester Luwin that is. My father said once that warriors never stop learning in the field. Every defeat is a lesson in itself. Thrice a week I'd sit beside father during meals and participate in his discussions with anyone that wish to speak to him. It could be Maester Luwin or the steward, the cook even. It will not be long before I am required to sit beside Father every day during meals now. When visiting lords or smallfolk come with petitions, I am also present. It is all part of the learning process I guess. What about you?"

"Something similar, though Meera is oft with me."

"Oh?" Surprise entered Robb's voice. "Is there a…reason for that? You are your father's heir are you not?"

"Indeed I am. However, my father thought it would be very educational for her to be present at all the petition sessions as well. Not that there is many of them," Jojen added. "Mostly it's other crannogmen complaining about Freys. It's all quite peaceful at Greywater Watch. You should come and visit one day." His last words were common courtesy. There hadn't been a visiting Stark at Greywater Watch in centuries – almost never in fact.

Robb Stark nodded thoughtfully. "It would be a very interesting experience." A sudden grin appeared on his face. "I should visit after I wed Princess Lyanna," he said with a chuckle. "The king wants us wed at King's Landing, but on our way to Winterfell, we can make a progress of sorts throughout the North. Every lord will want to see the princess and their future Lady of Winterfell."

"A fine idea," said Jojen cautiously. "If you do not mind me saying, wouldn't the princess first adjust to our northern autumns before journeying to say, Karhold? She has not experienced our…cold winds of yet."

"Quite right." Robb nodded again. "Are you betrothed, Jojen?"

Jojen shook his head. "There is no hurry for me to be. I know lords like having their children betrothed whilst still in the cradles, but what is the point when any of them could be claimed by illness and diseases at any day? It would only lead to alliances and pacts disintegrating. When were you and Princess Lyanna engaged? Was it during your childhood?"

"Since we were born actually," Robb admitted, embarrassed. "Well, more like a couple of days after Princess Lyanna was actually born. The king was quite eager to secure his elder daughter a Stark husband."

"That is…quite a long engagement." Was it the new social norm for noble heirs to be affianced for so long? It was a miracle Robb's betrothal with a princess was not broken…yet. As Jojen listened to Robb speak respectfully about his sister the Lady Lyarra's betrothal to Domeric Bolton, he sensed danger. "By chance, will the Lady Lyarra be travelling south at all?" he asked suddenly.

Robb stared at him, astounded. "No, not at all. Well, apart from the wedding of course. All of us but Rickon – there must be a Stark at Winterfell – will journey to King's Landing for the wedding. Afterwards when we return, we'll be celebrating and holding Lyarra's wedding to Domeric at Winterfell. That is the general plan I think. The king and Lord Bolton are both eager for the weddings."

"I see." In the Neck, weddings were more private affairs. For lords, they would wed at home and then journey throughout the Neck to celebrate, visiting a few of the other lords too. Jojen recalled his father hosting Lord Orrell Fenn and his new wife at Greywater Watch. There were no feasts, no dancing and most certainly no tourneys which were apparently popular in southron festivities. Instead of those activities, the Fenns dined with Jojen and his family in the Great Hall, stayed one night and left with a parcel of food that Father gifted them with.

"Ah, Jojen." Lord Stark smiled warmly at Jojen as he saw him enter Winterfell's Great Hall. "Did you have a good rest?"

"Yes my lord," Jojen responded. "I hope you are well too?"

"I am, Jojen. I am. Come and break your fast with us. I am afraid your sister the Lady Meera, had already broken her fast with my daughter Arya earlier. It seems Arya is keen in learning how to hunt…frogs."

Jojen smiled. _The little she-wolf_. It was easy to remember her. "Lord Stark, I am not surprised the Lady Arya wishes to befriend Meera further."

"Neither am I. It is good for Arya to make more friends and I hope she and the Lady Meera will be good friends in the future."

"I am certain they already are Lord Stark."

Lord Stark chuckled. "I hope you and my sons will be good friends too." Jojen glanced at Robb who smiled back. "I hope so too," Jojen murmured. He waited till Robb took a seat next to his father before sitting down as well. As the servants all quietly placed dishes of food in front of them, Jojen snatched the opportunity and looked around the Great Hall. The vast room was quite different in the daytime. A sense of cosiness and comfort had settled in like a bright beam of golden sunlight through an open window. Though it was not particularly early, there were still a number of others breaking their fast and chatting at the lower tables. Lady Stark was bustling around, speaking rapidly to passing servants and other members of the Stark household, the youngest Stark boy following her around like a steadfast loyal pup. What was his name? Rickon.

A servant placed a bowl of stew in front of Jojen. Jojen studied it. It looked like the stew he would eat at home, but it had tiny bits of…meat? "It's frog stew," Lord Stark explained. "Gage's version of it anyway." Jojen nodded. He spooned up a bit of the stew and began to eat. Mmm. It was good. Then again, after receiving green dream visions, he would often be hungry.

* * *

"Reed! How did you enjoy those frogs?" Jojen glanced at the training yard and frowned slightly as he saw the Greyjoy heir grinning cockily at him. Robb and Jon Snow rolled their eyes at him. "Come on Theon!" Robb called out. "Spar with one of us! At least allow Jojen to settle in!"

Jojen looked around quietly as Theon retorted back at him. Watching the four of them a short distance away near the entrance of the Great Keep were Domeric Bolton and Lady Lyarra who were both in riding gear with bags at their feet. The two of them did not seem to want to be disturbed. Jojen returned his attention to the waiting Theon. "The frogs were delicious," he said calmly. "It was cooked into frog stew. Gage is a wonderful cook."

Theon's smirk dissipated slightly. "Raw meat eh?" he pressed.

Jojen shook his head. "Not at all Theon. It was perfectly cooked. I heard it was you who caught me the frogs this morning. Thank you Theon. It was quite kind of you to wake up at dawn to hunt a few frogs for me and Meera."

Theon's smirk turned into a scowl. "Bog devil," he muttered under his breath. Jojen shrugged the insult away. Being called a bog devil was nothing new. He had been called worse names before. Every crannogmen had. Giving Theon Greyjoy a last steady look, Jojen turned to leave.

"Jojen!" To his surprise, it was Jon Snow who ran up to him. "Ignore Theon if it is possible," Jon advised him. "He enjoys tormenting new wards." He paused for a moment. "Well, he enjoys tormenting everyone except Lord and Lady Stark and a few of their children – the younger ones. It is Theon's nature. I'm afraid he would have been more well-behaved and pleasant if he hadn't befriended Waymar back when he was a ward here. Theon has his um, kind side I guess, but he doesn't like to show it much. Listen, if you need help here, do not be afraid to ask. If you want someone to spar with, I'll be happy to spar with you. I know Robb will too. I must warn you, Arya might want to challenge you to a sparring match as well."

"Lady Arya?"

"Oh, don't call her that." Jon laughed. "Arya hates being called 'Lady Arya'. You will find that out when you meet her properly."

"Properly, Jon? I met her when your party returned from Highgarden."

"You misunderstood me, Jojen. That was only introductions. When you're here long enough, you will discover Arya is more like a Mormont woman."

Jojen's eyes met Jon Snow's dark grey ones. _The white wolf_. Jojen remembered a vision he had seen about a white wolf – could it be about Jon Snow? Yes. _But the wolf had red eyes. Jon Snow has the darkest of grey…bordering on black even. Black eyes some would say._ "Thank you Jon," said Jojen finally. "Ser Jon, is it not? I heard you squired a year with Prince Oberyn Martell, one of the finest spearmen in the Seven Kingdoms. What was it like?"

Jon smiled. "A good year, Jojen. What I learnt…the spear has its advantages. In battles to come, I'll always value a spear as much as I do a sword." He lowered his voice. "Prince Oberyn had also taught me a little about poison."

"Poison?"

"Unconventional education I must admit, but useful too. Is it true that you and your people prefer wielding spears and using poison during war?"

"That is true. We also prefer fighting in our territory. While you, your brothers and your father's wards train with weapons every day, Meera and I would go and try and memorise the land. That is what all young crannogmen learn, nobles and commonfolk alike. We need to know the land and its surroundings so well till we can walk about blindfolded."

Jon looked impressed. "When you explore the Neck, do you ride horses?"

"No. We walk. There is this special tradition we crannogmen embrace to deem ourselves as true children of the Neck. It also signals we are ready to learn about the Neck's secrets."

"Maester Luwin would describe that as a rite of passage." Jojen nodded. "Yes," he agreed. "That is exactly what it is. A rite of passage. Girls would always be first as they enter womanhood. The night before, we would be given a few supplies to start us off in our journey. Usually the journey would be to Moat Cailin and back. To survive, we must know the swamps and terrain really well or we will die. We must know where frogs and fish can be found, which river is safe to drink from. It is a test of survival. Not all crannogmen return. Some might run from the Neck in fear, only to be caught and no doubt killed for amusement by southroners; others might die of fever, hunger or thirst."

"How do your um, elders, know you actually went to Moat Cailin?"

"We have to bring back a piece of moss. It is said that the moss that covers the three remaining towers of Moat Cailin have special properties. It is said that this certain moss can be used for healing or for poisoning." He couldn't help but note that Jon Snow did not flinch once at the mention of poisoning.

* * *

As one of the wards of House Stark, Jojen found himself back in the courtyard at dawn the next morning, bidding farewell to the Lady Lyarra and her betrothed who were to leave for the Dreadfort. When Lord Stark whispered to his daughter and future good-son, Jojen prodded Meera gently in the arm. "I saw the weeping wolf last night," he murmured. "She was crying again."

"That is why she is called the weeping wolf," Meera reminded him softly. "You named her that yourself."

"No I did not. It came to me in the vision. The white wolf, the pups, the mother wolf, the weeping wolf…even the little she-wolf I have not even met yet."

"Lady Lyarra isn't weeping. She looks far from weeping, Jojen. Perhaps you are mistaken, Brother. It could be any Stark to play the role as the weeping wolf. Well, it could be Lord Stark's youngest daughter."

"No, she is the she-wolf. I saw the weeping wolf cry rivers of tears, Meera. She was surrounded by her enemies and was all alone. Lone wolves die faster whilst packs survive. Father told us that many times."

Meera frowned. "Lady Lyarra is travelling _north_ , not south. You know I believe in your green dreams, Jojen. I always will."

"You do not think Lady Lyarra is the weeping wolf," Jojen stated flatly. "When I first saw her, I could not believe it either, but my dreams have not been wrong of yet. Anything can happen between now and winter. Should I at least inform her it is not safe for her to journey south?"

"If it helps? If you wish to do so, you should tell her quickly." Jojen nodded. His heart pounding faster than usual, he stepped forward, ignoring the sudden stares from the other Starks. Jojen walked up to Lady Lyarra who looked astonished. "It might sound strange to you my lady," he said quietly, "but I must warn you: don't venture to King's Landing. You will meet naught but tears there."

Domeric Bolton frowned first as he spurred his horse a little closer to Lyarra's palfrey. Lady Lyarra Stark arched an eyebrow gracefully. "Perhaps tears of joy?" she suggested. "Robb and Princess Lyanna will be wed there soon."

Jojen shook his head. "I saw you there alone, Lady Lyarra. Do not go south. The south holds nothing but misery and gloom for wolves."

Lady Lyarra stared at him, her brilliant purple eyes revealing no sign of fear. "I thank you then," she said at last. "Thank you for warning me, Jojen. I'll keep your warning in mind." Jojen stepped back and watched as Domeric and Lyarra urged their horses to a gentle trot out of Winterfell. _She'll forget_ , he thought sadly. _Lady Lyarra will not remember my warning…until it is too late_.

* * *

 **I enjoyed writing the green dream vision at the beginning of the chapter. It's pretty similar to the one Howland told Ned in an earlier chapter, but more detailed as it's in Jojen's POV. I'll be happy to hear more interpretations of the dream :) I'm glad you enjoyed reading the previous chapter in Stannis's POV! Now that I know you're happy with it, I'll definitely write another Stannis POV. There wasn't an explanation about Stannis finding out about the bastards born in incest...yet. The next chapter will return to an old POV character (still in the north).**


	64. Lyarra III

The moment one of the four stable boys took the reins of her exhausted horse, Lyarra headed to the forests surrounding the Dreadfort with Domeric at her side. The whispers of the weirwood and ironwood trees sung to her – they sung away her worries, Jojen Reed's odd warning and more. Lyarra loved the quiet song the Dreadfort trees sing so softly one had to cease speaking to hear.

Dried leaves crunched under her and Domeric's riding boots as they walked to the special grove in the forests. It had been some sort of tradition for them both: after a particularly long ride or journey to Winterfell or Barrowton (the home of Domeric's favourite aunt Lady Barbrey Dustin), she and Domeric would visit this one grove – the late Lady Bolton's prized and adored grove.

The grove was small and surrounded by tall trees that populated the majority of the silent Bolton woods. According to Domeric who in turn heard it from Lady Dustin, the late Lady Bethany Bolton only spent a little time in that grove before she tragically passed away. "My mother did live to see the oranges start growing in the grove during summer," Domeric had once said. "Most of the oranges grown in Bolton lands are sour; my mother's are sweet." From time to time, Lyarra and Domeric would sit alone in the grove and speak to the trees as if they were Lady Bolton in the flesh. While her body was entombed deep in the underground crypt, Domeric was convinced her spirit remained in that special grove.

The cold autumn breeze nipped Lyarra's cheek as she approached the largest of the trees there. "We have finally returned," she spoke. At first it'd felt strange talking to a tree, but now she was used to it and found it to some degree, to be an oddly comforting situation. "Highgarden is beautiful, Lady Bolton, a splendid and lovely place. Not as wonderful as Winterfell or the Dreadfort, but still beautiful in its one way. There was a grand tourney and Domeric participated in the joust. He jousted spectacularly." She turned and smiled at her betrothed. "I am most proud of him and you must be too." She stepped back and squeezed Domeric's hand.

"Mother," Domeric said softly, almost as softly as Lord Bolton. "It'll not be long now. I wish you had seen Highgarden with me and Lyarra, but there is something even more magnificent and important approaching – the wedding. I am already a man grown and Lyarra is a woman. One day we will be wed before the heart tree in the eyes of the old gods. That day will be perfect, Mother. Almost perfect. Robb and Jon whom I both love will be my brothers through marriage as will Bran and Arthur and little Rickon. Arya and Gwenysse will be my sisters-in-law and Lord Stark whom I regard as a second father will be my father through marriage. Aunt Barbrey will be there as will her and your brothers and father. It will be the most grandest occasion the north had seen and will lead to everlasting peace between Houses Bolton and Stark. Peace at last, Mother." His pale blue eyes met Lyarra's and they both smiled at each other. "Shall we go inside?" Domeric asked. "It is too chilly for a longer conversation."

On cue, the wind encircled them and swiped the back of Lyarra's neck. It _was_ getting colder. "Winter is coming," Lyarra whispered. Domeric nodded. "It will be a long winter this time," he predicted, squeezing her hand, "but we will survive it like we always do."

"Would it not be lovely to have a winter wedding?"

"I suppose so. If you wish, you can ask my father about winter weddings. Aunt Barbrey told me that he and Mother had a winter wedding."

"Was it a cold winter back then?"

Domeric shrugged. "Perhaps. You know as well as I do that winters here in the north are always cold." He gazed at her for a moment.

"Why are you staring at me?" Lyarra asked with a curious smile.

"I was thinking," Domeric answered. "Do you remember when you were still a little girl singing those songs? Your mother had taught you the Dornish songs she knew and Old Nan taught you traditional northern songs too. Your favourite had always been _The Winter Maiden_. Do you recall it, Lyarra?"

Lyarra shuddered. "I would sing that for _hours_. I remember asking you to play it for me on the harp." Her smile turned reminiscent. "You played it so beautifully for such a sad song." She absently hummed the melody of _The Winter Maiden_. By the gods, it had been so long since she last sang it.

"The maiden died didn't she?" inquired Domeric.

Lyarra nodded. "She killed herself. More like froze to death actually. Some like to say that when summer came, she melted and out of the puddle of her remains bloomed the first blue winter roses. Old Nan told me once that the blue roses are called winter roses in honour of the maiden from that song apparently. Of course there is no solid evidence to prove it was true, but it was an interesting story. I'd like to believe it is true…" She paused slightly. "But life is not a song," she finished abruptly. "Especially here in the north."

"Life is not a song," Domeric agreed. "It never is or was. I find it astounding the southroners like telling their children that a life is a song." He shook his head. "It is foolish. Utterly foolish. Hope is one thing, but allowing girls to believe that they will always be rescued by knights in shining armour…foolish."

"You would not rescue me if I am abducted like my aunt?" Lyarra jested. She'd never jape like that at Winterfell. With even the smallest mention of Aunt Lyanna, Father's lips would tighten and his eyes would grow greyer and colder.

Domeric looked at her steadily. "If you were abducted, your captor would face the wrath of House Bolton. I would march with an army of Bolton soldiers and I'll not rest until you are returned to me. There will be no diplomacy; I will return to Winterfell and gift your father with your captor's head on a plate. If he refuses to hand you to me, he will find himself in utmost pain."

"You will…flay him?"

"If I feel particularly…angry. If your captor cooperates and hasn't harmed you in anyway, I will decapitate him with one swipe of my sword."

Lyarra smiled. "See? Knight in shining armour."

Domeric pulled a face. "Furious betrothed would be a better term."

"What if it is Prince Orys who abducts me?"

Domeric snorted scornfully. "Are you trying to launch another Robert's War? I truly hope not, Lyarra. We did not have a tourney at Harrenhal and Prince Orys is not what I call an infatuated prince. Last we saw of Orys Baratheon, he seemed to be more interested in returning home than abducting noble ladies."

Lyarra laughed. "That is true," she agreed as they approached one of the large, iron doors at the back of the Dreadfort. "Prince Orys is no Rhaegar Targaryen. In Highgarden, I heard from other ladies that Prince Orys Baratheon is more like his uncle, Lord Stannis Baratheon, than his father the king."

"I have not met Lord Baratheon so it would be hard to say."

"Indeed." The door creaked open slowly. Even though it was still daytime, the Dreadfort was dark. Domeric swiftly lit a torch that looked eerily like the human face, its mouth and eyes twisted into a scream of agony. It seemed all the Lords of the Dreadfort enjoyed frightening their guests. Lyarra was not at all scared. Well, she once was when she first arrived, but not anymore. The screaming torches, as she liked to call them, were everywhere in the Dreadfort. There were even two in her chamber and at least a dozen in the corridor around her room. Even the vast Dreadfort library had those torches.

Strangely, it felt even colder _inside_ the castle than outside. "I'll have one of the servants make a fire in your chamber," Domeric told Lyarra. "Do you want a bath before we sup with my father?"

"That would be wonderful," said Lyarra gratefully. She had no desire to speak to her prospective good-father in a mud-stained gown. "Your father would not be offended if I bathe first and then sup with him?"

Domeric shook his head. "Not at all. You go ahead to your chambers. I will tell my father that we have arrived. He is often busy with land and border disputes. It is odd though, as he also mentioned wildling raids in the last letter."

"Wildling raids? _Here?_ "

"Oh, not this close, but near the Lonely Hills and Weeping Water apparently."

"The Lonely Hills is Umber land."

"Most of it yes. The border dispute only happened a few days ago. No doubt at supper Father will discuss it with us. I will come and escort you to the Great Hall in say…an hour, my lady Lyarra?"

Lyarra nodded. She watched Domeric head off before she went straight to her rooms. It was the same chamber she stayed in last time and as she pushed open the door, she was surprised to see a different maidservant waiting for her. As one of the daughters of Lord Stark of Winterfell and Warden of the North, she – and her sisters – were permitted to have two or three maidservants. If she was one of the daughters of a southron great lord, no doubt she would be served by more. At Winterfell, Lyarra only had one maidservant whom she shared with Daenerys. At the Dreadfort, Lord Bolton had assigned her a maidservant, a sweet, timid girl by the name of Kyra. Lyarra had liked her – who would not like a hardworking and a little frightened girl?

"Who are you?" asked Lyarra, frowning slightly. "Where is Kyra?" There was a sort of slyness about this new maidservant she did not like.

"Mydea milady," the girl responded, flashing her a suspiciously crafty smile. "I am afraid your previous maidservant Kyra, has greatly displeased milord Bolton only a mere few days ago. She was dismissed immediately and Lord Bolton chose me to be your new maidservant milady." She beamed, her smile showing rows of sharp, white teeth. "I heard so much about you milady. Good things of course. I'm quite eager to serve you while you are here milady. Shall I go and draw you some hot water for a bath milady?"

Lyarra nodded warily. "Yes, that will be quite…excellent, thank you. May I ask which House you are from?"

Mydea's smile broadened. "I am the descendant of bastards, milady. Both my mother and father are bastards, my grandfather and grandmother bastards…I am a member of the illustrious House Snow milady."

"I…see." Lyarra had never met a Snow who was so proud of his or her bastard heritage before. Her brother Jon often brooded and disliked his position and rank as their father's natural child.

"Shall I go and prepare your bath now milady?"

Lyarra nodded again. "Thank you Mydea." She kept the door opened and a few seconds later, Lady padded in. Lyarra smiled and patted her. Ever since she was a pup, Lady had learnt to wait patiently and silently outside the doors. Such a well-behaved direwolf. As Lyarra peeled off her riding gloves and removed her riding cloak, she thought about her siblings' direwolves. Nymeria and Arya were quite attached to the hip. If Arya commanded Nymeria to wait outside, Nymeria would obey – for a couple of seconds before bounding into the room to prowl around or sit down at Arya's side. Robb's wolf, Grey Wind, was equally as loyal. When lords and other northerners visited Winterfell, Grey Wind would growl warningly and sniff at the guests suspiciously. Lady would never growl or sniff anyone in such a protective manner, but Lyarra did feel safe sleeping with Lady in her room. Lady did not sleep on Lyarra's bed; she slept on her own constructed of a pelts and fur and a plump pillow.

"Milady! Your bath is ready."

Shaking away a shiver of distrust, Lyarra hurried to her privy room where the tub was already filled with steaming hot water. "It's very hot milady," Mydea told her. "Shall I wash your hair for you milady?"

Lyarra shook her head. "Not today thank you. I would like to wash alone." She bit in a wince as she dipped her right foot into the tub. Mydea smiled. "As you say milady." She dipped her head and slowly walked out, closing the door behind her. Lyarra slipped further into the bathtub and closed her eyes. She was not fazed by the hot water anymore, yet she still felt uncomfortable.

 _What is the matter with me?_ Lyarra thought, reaching for the bar of soap. _I've bathed here many times before. I was here alone that evening when there was an awful storm – the most fierce of storms. I was unafraid then. Why now? This is to be my home…the home of my future children too…and grandchildren…_ She allowed all her thoughts to wander as she continued washing herself. It was quite unlike her to be drawn into those…strange vibes.

Extremely strange vibes indeed.

* * *

"Is something the matter, Lady Lyarra?" The soft voice of Lord Roose Bolton interrupted Lyarra's train of thought. "You hardly touched your stew today. Does it not appeal to you, my lady?"

Lyarra blinked. "Oh, no," she said swiftly as she saw both Lord Bolton and her betrothed stare at her with their pale eyes. "It is not the stew at all."

"What is it?" said Domeric, concerned. "Are you unwell?"

"Unwell?" Lord Bolton questioned. He scrutinised her silently. "Forgive me for saying this Lady Lyarra, but you do not look unwell," he commented. He spooned up some of the stew and sniffed it. "I too find this stew disagreeable," he declared softly, pushing it away. "Overcooked. Believe me, Lady Lyarra, this will not occur again. I will ensure that."

"It is not the stew my lord," Lyarra said again. "It is…" Her voice trailed off. She could not tell the Lord of the Dreadfort and future good-father that it's his home that sent chilling shivers down her spine. "It is my moon blood," she lied. "I never experienced the painful part of it much before, though my mother had warned it might happen from time to time." Both the two men continued staring blankly at her as if she had spoken in a foreign tongue.

"I see," said Domeric finally. "Shall I take you to the maester? He might have a potion or herbs to help soothe the pain."

"Thank you Domeric," said Lyarra gratefully, standing up. "Yes, I think I might need to see your maester. Please excuse me Lord Bolton." Taking Domeric's hand, she slowly descended from the dais and made her way through the almost empty Great Hall to the iron doors. As she approached the doors, apprehension crawled up her spine. Lyarra stopped and glanced around, her purple eyes briefly met the cold pale eyes of Lord Bolton. _He cannot be the only one watching me._ Her heart pounded faster. As Lyarra stared at Lord Bolton, she felt Domeric's curious gaze – and another pair of eyes.

 _Whose eyes?_

Were they human? An animal's?

Lyarra broke contact with Lord Bolton and looked around the Great Hall. Like always, it was dim and smoky. The walls had skeletal human hands jutting from them, grasping rows of torches and in front of the dais were long tables, the one closest to her covered in a thin layer of dust. Clearly those tables haven't groaned under the weight of thousands of dishes in a _very_ long time. Lyarra glanced up at the vaulted ceiling and wooden rafters that had turned black from smoke. At first when she saw it, it surprised her; now it was a normal sight.

"Lyarra?"

In some sort of daze, Lyarra allowed Domeric to lead her out. "Something has upset you," Domeric said flatly, "or someone. What is it? You can tell me. I do not want you afraid in your own home-to-be."

"I don't know," Lyarra murmured. "At first I thought it odd your father chose to assign me a new maidservant…but it was not just that. This will sound foolish, but throughout supper, I felt…I thought someone was watching me." She wanted to slap herself for sounding so much like a frightened southron rose. She was no weak Tyrell girl who would scream at the sight of a mouse; she was a Stark of the north, fearless and strong.

"New maidservant?" Domeric frowned. "I wasn't aware of that. What on earth happened to Kyra?"

"Mydea said she was dismissed. It is not just Mydea-"

"I can see you are unhappy with Mydea," Domeric interrupted. "I will speak to my father tonight and insist he reinstate Kyra as your maidservant."

"Thank you, but you do not have to do that. It is not just Mydea. After we went to your mother's grove, there was something…different about this castle. I know I sound like an utter fool, but it…it is the truth." Lyarra bit her lip. "Maybe I'm just imagining all this. Perhaps we should have stayed here instead of travelling with my family south to Highgarden. Your father did suggest for us to make a progress around Bolton lands instead of going to the Highgarden wedding. If we didn't get a taste of the south…"

"It has naught to do with Highgarden, Lyarra." Domeric lowered his voice to a spider soft whisper. "I too have a new manservant."

"What happened to Donnel?"

"Reek said he was caught stealing. Donnel was sent to the Wall."

Lyarra frowned. She could not picture Lord Bolton sending _anyone_ to the Wall for thievery, rape, murder or any other crime. "Donnel had always been so loyal," she said doubtfully. "He was part of your uncle Roger's household was he not? It is unlikely your uncle would send a thief to serve you. Who is this Reek? I do not remember that name." When she first arrived at the Dreadfort, she ensured that she remembered the names and faces of every member in the Bolton household, including the most obscure of servants.

"Reek is my new servant," explained Domeric. "I only met him today, but he is an odd sort of fellow. Smiles as if everything is a joke. I suppose I will get used to him in time." He sighed. "But Donnel a thief…" He shook his head.

"It is odd is it not? When we return and both our old servants dismissed?"

"Odd indeed," Domeric agreed. "Both loyal servants too."

"A mystery…"

Domeric nodded. "There is something familiar about Reek," he admitted. "I do not know what though. It's like I had seen him before…" He shook his head again as they walked closer to the library door. "Impossible though. I only met him. I do wonder why his parents named him 'Reek' though."

"Perhaps it is a nickname?" Lyarra suggested with a smile.

Domeric snorted. "A nickname? For what name? Reekos?"

Lyarra laughed. A tint of warmth seemed to have returned to the Dreadfort. "I think it could be for Rickon?" she offered.

"You will give your brother that nickname?"

"By the gods no!" Lyarra giggled. "An awful nickname!"

Domeric laughed with her. "Do you still need to speak to the maester about ah, your moon blood?" he asked, his small smile remaining on his face. Lyarra shook her head. "I am cured," she said, gazing at him fondly. "It seems that speaking to you was the remedy." She considered it. "Or perhaps it was the stew too. What do you think the meat was? Venison?"

"Or bear even. I heard rumours that my father is planning to ally our House to the Mormonts of Bear Island. Maybe Lady Mormont sent some bear meat as gifts to symbolise the impending alliance?"

"Bear meat," said Lyarra thoughtfully. "The stew did not taste much like bear." She had never tasted bear before though.

"Come to the library with me," Domeric invited. "I found a new batch of books on the table. Have a look at them with me. Afterwards we can play some music in there and then a light supper? I know we already ate with my father, but I doubt that stew was what you would call a good, hearty supper."

Lyarra's smile widened. Domeric squeezed her hand comfortingly and pushed open the library door. Before Lyarra went in, something caught her eye. Standing near the statue of a Red King and staring at her was the ugliest young man she'd ever seen. Big boned and slope shouldered with long, dark hair framing his pink and blotchy skinned face. It was not his rather creepy smirk that frightened her – it was the sense of amusement that glittered in his small, close-set and pale pair of eyes the colour of dirty ice chips.

 _Run!_ A voice shouted in her head. _Run! Run back to Winterfell!_ Lyarra stared at the stranger. How long was he there for? How much of her conversation with her betrothed did he overhear? He was a stranger to her, but a name already came to her. A horrid name.

 _Reek_.

* * *

 **I decided to move the story back north for a few chapters and chose to write a Lyarra POV as I'm eager to introduce Reek into the story. I'm sure by the description you can already guess who 'Reek' is...If all goes well, the next chapter will be a Reek chapter. My early apologies if it doesn't work out and you get a different POV next chapter instead.**


	65. Reek

The Stark bitch continued staring at him as if he was some sort of oddity. _Reek the Freak_. Reek's wide, meaty lips curved into an amused smile. The old Reek had a fondness for rhymes. It was natural the new Reek should also like rhymes – to a certain extent of course. Reek licked his lips.

Her eyes were purple…

Very rare indeed.

Giving the Stark bitch one last long stare, Reek turned and sauntered away, in the direction of the dungeons. The first Reek never sauntered; he didn't have one drop of noble blood in his veins after all. The current Reek sauntered; he _did_ have noble blood – Bolton blood in fact. His eyes darkened. _He_ was the true heir of the Dreadfort, not that solemn idiot. He smirked though as he remembered the game. _It is a game I will win._ Oh, it started off fun…and it would be the most thrilling and exciting game he would've ever played.

Running from that horrid mill he'd once called home to the Dreadfort with the first Reek at his side had been amusing – hunting animals and peasant women on the way, what could be more entertaining? His bitch of a mother tried to keep his heritage a secret. She succeeded for a few years, but blabbed everything after she had a couple of her fingers cut and fed to her. _I should have fed her to the hounds_ , Reek thought regretfully. _Plenty of good meat wasted_. Being the merciful son, he had given his bitch mother a quick death – he strangled her with his bare hands. A much swifter death than feeding her to his dogs.

The stench of rotting flesh and blood rose as Reek approached the dungeons. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an ancient skeletal key tinged with bits of rust that he had stolen from the Lord of the Dreadfort's solar a few months ago. Pride soared in Reek as he stuck the key into the keyhole and twisted it savagely. Stealing the key from right under Lord Bolton's nose! Victory. It was not difficult though as the castle was virtually empty all the time.

 _Lord Bolton is a fool too_ , Reek thought, pushing the dungeon door open. An old fool. He smirked as he imagined Lord Bolton's insipid face grow whiter when he at last discovers who he, Reek, truly was. Oh, the old man would die of fright! On the spot too! Reek cackled with laughter. He breathed deeply. Ah, the ripe stench of rotten meat and fresh blood…a glorious smell. Reek closed the iron door shut behind him and slipped the key back into his pocket. When he was Ramsay Snow, the bastard of the mill, he'd heard tales about the infamous Dreadfort dungeons – it had thrilled him to the bone when the first Reek confirmed it. "Aye," he'd said with a grunt. "It's all true, flayed skin and all. I saw it with my own eyes. Indeed a pretty sight. It seems Lord Roose Bolton is as much a Bolton as his ancestors. He might be more."

A pity that the old Reek was mauled to death by the dogs. He was an excellent companion. Ah well, Ramsay Snow needed to disappear for a couple of months to know the Dreadfort well, and who better to pretend to be than Reek, a servant no one remembered?

 _I am Reek now. One day I'll be Ramsay again. Ramsay Bolton, the true heir to the Dreadfort_. For now, Reek played the part of a servant; later he will ascend to play the role he was born to play – that of heir. In a particularly good mood, Reek felt ready to…go on a hunt. _No_ , he told himself. _You are Reek, not Ramsay_. He felt the tiniest flicker of irritation. How was he to be entertained with hunting out of the question? Plotting to kill Domeric? No. Too easy. He could poison his ale without the dull-witted Lord Bolton knowing.

"Please…"

Reek's eyes glittered like diamonds as the whispered plea caught his ear. It'd been two days since he last visited this particular dungeon. It seemed that he had underestimated the bitch Kyra. Not only had she put up a decent fight (in normal circumstances it would have earnt her a swift death), but she was still alive! Reek crouched down. "Did you say something?" he said softly, tracing the bitch's tear-stained face with a thick finger.

"Please…" the bitch whimpered again, her dark brown eyes staring up at him in a pleading sort of way. "Please let me go…"

"Let you go?" Reek leant even closer. He licked her forehead. "Why would I do such a thing?" he crooned, moving along and biting her ear hard. Like a little pig, the bitch squealed in pain. _Oooh. So thrilling to hear her scream_. Snickering, Reek reached for one of his favourite toys: a flaying knife.

Reek had a whole collection of weapons, some he inherited from the first Reek and others he stole from both the dead and the living. In his immense assortment, he possessed falchions, hunting knives, dirks, swords and his personal favourite: flaying knives. To be precise, his absolute favourite flaying knife was one with a hilt of yellow bone.

Seeing the flaying knife, the bitch's eyes widened and she tried to squirm away. Reek laughed and watched. There was no hurry. Kyra would not go far with both of her feet already chopped off. He glanced around the dungeon. Like many of the other dungeons he was privileged to have glimpsed, this one was windowless. It was rumoured that this particular cell had once housed a Stark prince prisoner; now it served as a chamber of bloody spoils.

Needless to say, it was Reek's favourite room.

As Reek played with his flaying knife, his thoughts lingered. A few months ago, he dragged his first victim here, Domeric Bolton's old manservant. Catching him was easy; killing him was just as easy. Though the first Reek enjoyed playing and fiddling with dead bodies, the current Reek preferred playing with the living. The screams of pain and agony…Reek smiled. It was music to his ears. Oh, that young man had yowled and wept when Reek broke all his fingers and toes one at a time. _He was such a girl_. He had cried rivers of tears when his manhood was ripped off, an act committed by Reek himself. Yes, there it was. Donnel's insipid, limp, small cock nailed to a wooden rack. Also nailed to the rack were a couple of other cocks, more older and wrinkled and shrunk like raisins. It seemed castrating prisoners was an activity enjoyed by many former Lords of the Dreadfort.

Besides rotting cocks, there was also a long shelf of skulls and boxes of bones, some small enough to be fingers. _This room is full of fun toys_. Bones, skulls, other remaining appendages…

Reek glanced down at the bitch's few remaining fingers. Unsurprisingly there were traces of blood on her nails. He chuckled. Little fool tried to claw at the door – many before her had attempted that too. "You are quite a small thing aren't you my dear?" Reek murmured, smirking at her. "I am afraid you do not have enough skin to be made into a cloak for me; you hardly have enough meat on your bones to be fed to my dogs either! What should I do with you…" He bent down prodded the bitch with his knife. "What should I do with you?" he said again.

"Please…" the bitch moaned. "Let me go…"

"Let you go?" Reek stood up and placed his foot on her forehead, forcing her to stare up at him. "Why would I let you go? You will go running to Lord Bolton and I will lose my head. Or skin if Lord Bolton likes to flay people. No, no, no, no…you will not leave this room…alive." He looked thoughtfully at his flaying knife before glancing at the rack. _Pity there is only the one rack here_. Removing the cocks was a task he did not particularly look forward to.

"It seems you will not lose skin today," said Reek, pocketing the knife. "You do look hungry though. Are you hungry?" The bitch would be. She had not been fed for at least three days. Or was it four? A sly smile spread on Reek's face. He leant towards the blood-stained table and grabbed the yellow bone hilted falchion (the matching set to the flaying knife) which was conveniently close to him. His smile broadening, he held down the bitch's left hand. He slowly pressed the falchion to her second finger and began to cut, blood seeping out. The bitch's sobs and cries grew shriller and louder as the blade removed the finger. Reek dropped the knife and forced the bitch's mouth wide open. _I hope you are hungry, bitch._ He dropped the bitch's finger into her mouth and clamped her lips shut. The bitch's eyes were as wide as dishes; her arms and legs were splayed all over the place as she tried to squirm and wriggle. Reek kept her mouth closed and a few minutes later, her entire body stilled.

Reek stood up and savagely kicked the body. The bitch was finally dead – she was of no use to him now…or was she?

* * *

For a place with a roaring fire blazing, the kitchen was still cold. Reek did not care. In fact, he liked the cold, chilly atmosphere in the Dreadfort. As Reek went into the kitchen, he spotted the cook – a very thin man with a few whiskers and a rather long nose – gloomily stirring broth in a huge black iron pot. "What's it you want?" he snapped grouchily.

Reek smiled. "Lord Domeric is feeling a tad bit peckish, Cook."

"Rubbish! He just ate supper with Lord Bolton and the Lady Lyarra! Thought a man of good health, he cannot possibly be hungry already!"

"Oh, but he is, Cook. He is, as is the Lady Lyarra. Lord Domeric requests some of your best tarts in the library."

The cook stared at him incredulously. "What! The library? Why in the name of the gods do Lord Domeric and Lady Lyarra want _tarts_ in the library? What if they leave crumbs on the floor or jam in one of the ancient scrolls? Lord Bolton will be furious! He will have my head! Can Lord Domeric not wait until the lemon cakes are ready? Lord Domeric already requested lemon cakes!"

"Would it not be more a crime if we ignore Lord Domeric's orders?"

The cook thought for a moment. "Aye," he grunted in agreement. "Shall I bring cold tarts to Lord Domeric then?"

"Yes Cook. Lord Domeric specifically asked for _you_ to bring him and the lady a plate of tarts. Perhaps he wishes to compliment you on your stew?"

The cook grumbled to himself and turned to pile a stack of cold tarts onto one of the plates he had left on the table. Reek smiled to himself. "I will be right back," the cook said warningly. "Don't go eating my tarts." He lumbered out, carrying a plate of his precious, putrid tarts.

"I will not dream of eating them," Reek muttered. Horrible tarts. He walked to the black pot and sniffed at it. More stew. It seemed the cook was only competent at baking tarts and cooking stews. No matter. He wouldn't be consuming another spoonful of that disgusting stew. _Domeric will be_. Reek carefully unwrapped the package of meat he had clutched in his cloak. He stared at it proudly. He had cut it himself, right from the animal. _Person more like it_. He snickered. With his own knife, he sliced the chunk of meat into smaller pieces. Some still leaked blood. He dropped the pieces of meat into the pot and mixed it slowly, his smile growing as the small bits of meat disappeared in the mix of thick brown broth and hunks of what looked like beef and venison.

"Enjoy," Reek whispered maliciously, quietly climbing up the stairs. What luck it was that the stew was still bubbling over the fire. Hopefully the Bolton lord, his son and Lady Lyarra would enjoy it. After all, they already tasted that stew with his rather special meat in it at dinner.

* * *

With no desire to attend to other servant work, Reek snuck back to the library, as silent as a mouse. The door creaked as Reek pushed it open. Domeric and Lady Lyarra had not moved much.

Reek quietly closed the door behind him and he hid himself among the dozen towering shelves stuffed with books. Though he had learnt his letters, he had not much interest in reading. Maesters read; men like him had no need to read when they could hunt and kill at their fancy.

"I do not remember asking for tarts," the Stark bitch was saying as she picked up a tart. "Did you ask the cook to bring some?"

Domeric shook his head. "I was not aware the cook had some left. I _did_ ask him to bring us some lemon cakes when they are warm. Apparently lemon cakes are a delicacy these days. It is said the queen and Princess Lyanna both love them. It would be interesting to taste one."

"You did not taste one at Highgarden?"

"Oh I did, but it was too sweet." He made a face. "Much too sweet. It was as if a lemon was dunked into a bowl of sugar." He shuddered. "Do you like lemon cakes, Lyarra? Did you try them at least?"

"I thought they were too sweet as well. I shared half with Arya."

Reek watched as the Stark bitch bit into a tart. With a handkerchief, she wiped away the fruit juice that dripped escaped onto her luscious pink lips. _Oooh_. Those beautiful lips. Reek felt his cock stir as he imagined himself biting down on that Stark bitch's lips and then licking up the blood that appeared…

What a vision!

His cock twitched as he pictured him and the Stark bitch in the dungeons, her strapped down and him looming above her...

Reek's fingers curled into a fist. _She is Domeric's, not yours_. _Oh, but what if he is to die?_ Reek's eyes glittered at the mere thought of it. Oh, he would eventually kill Domeric one day, but the idea of having the Stark bitch to fuck at his every whim and desire…the thought was too thrilling. He would fuck her in the dungeons, on the bed, on the forest floor after a good hunt…even the underground crypts next to Domeric's body. He would fuck her in the mouth, her cunt…everywhere. It was quite the vision. _I will have you, Lyarra Stark_ , Reek thought darkly. _Oh, I will have you. If not you, I will have your bitch sister. Either one of them. I will be the first of House Bolton to fuck a Stark. I will be the first to fuck a Stark as if she is one of my bitches. Stark or no, she will be my bitch._

It might take weeks of plotting and planning, but Reek was patient. He would be Reek for a couple more weeks, but when he would fuck the Stark bitch for the first time on their wedding night, he would be Ramsay again. Not Ramsay Snow – Ramsay _Bolton_ , heir apparent of the Dreadfort. All noble-blooded bastards could be legitimised so why not him? Reek cared little for politics, but through listening at doors, learnt that the Bolton-Stark marriage was essential. Reek stifled a nasty giggle. Surely the oh-so-honourable Lord Stark would prefer one of his bitches to marry a young man like him rather than an old man like Lord Bolton!

"What tart is this?"

Reek's eyes sparkled. _"How do you like it Lady Lyarra?"_ he wanted to ask. _"Is it not sweet with Kyra's blood?"_ Only yesterday he'd sprinkled some of Kyra's blood into the tart mixture. He had thought the bitch Kyra was dead, but it seemed she had been only unconscious.

"Strawberry I think," Domeric answered. "It isn't very sweet is it?"

The Stark bitch shook her head. "An odd taste do you not think?"

"Very odd for a strawberry tart."

With a tiny snigger, Reek slipped back out of the library and came face to face with the Stark bitch's maidservant. Ah, a sly vixen Mydea was. Mostly in bed, but still the most reliable source of information in the whole damned castle.

"Must I still call you Reek, _milord?_ " the vixen cooed as they moved away. "It is an awful name for a man like you."

"I am still Reek," Reek said with a coy grin. "As long as Domeric Bolton is alive – for now – I will remain as Reek."

"For how long, _milord?_ You promised you will marry me one day. You said that I will be the next Lady of the Dreadfort, not that Stark bitch!" She pouted in quite an unflattering manner. Reek gripped her throat, his cock growing hard again as the vixen spluttered for air, desperately clawing at the back of his right hand in a hopeless attempt to loosen his hold.

"You _will_ be the next Lady of the Dreadfort," Reek hissed, not battering an eye through the lie. "I am a man of my word…if you keep to your end of the bargain. I hope you are, are you not?" He released the vixen, who nodded violently.

Reek smiled. "Very good…pet. Very good indeed."

"What do you want me to do milord? Boil her to death?"

"Oh no. Scalding and drowning are too good for the Stark bitch. She deserves a more…painful death. Eventually. For now, terrify her. Tell her the tales about the horror and violence that occurred here." He paused. "Frighten her with the story of one of the Red Kings, one of the King Rogars I think. Tell her the tale of how he celebrated his victory one night." He chuckled darkly. "There is also the tale that regards her chambers. Enlighten her on that tale."

"The tale about Lady Rylla Bolton, milord? I heard she had a fancy for bathing daily in virgins' blood."

Reek nodded. "That is the one, my pet. Rylla Bolton tortured her victims – she was as ruthless as any Red King. She mutilated and burnt her victims' hands and feet, she stabbed them with her needles, ripped off their fingernails…and always she would then bathe in their blood."

The vixen smirked. "It will surely frighten the Stark bitch."

"Oh indeed. If that does not frighten her, I'm certain when she discovers that it had been Kyra's flesh she had been consuming, she would go mad. Wouldn't that be a sight? A Stark bitch gone mad!"

"Are you sure you do not wish to hunt her down?"

Reek stared at the smiling vixen. Fucking a Stark was one matter…hunting her down…now _that_ would be memorable. He had hunted peasant girls before, most of them during his journey from the rotten mill to the Dreadfort. He and the first Reek had such jolly good fun. First they would be in the guise of peasants looking for work. Once accepted and seated at the table, they would kill their hosts: slow deaths for the men and raping all the women before strangling the old. For those young women…they would be prey. As most farms and mills were miles apart (it was too risky to enter the villages) and separated by dozens of trees, it made the perfect hunting ground. The girls would be released into the woods and a couple of hours later, they'd be hunted down. None had ever escaped death as of yet. If the hunt was enjoyable, the girl would be strangled too. If the girl was caught two hours into the hunt, she would be flayed. Afterwards, the bodies would be left to the first Reek to do with as he pleased.

"I will hunt her down," Reek said slowly, noting delight glowing on the vixen's expression. "I'll hunt her down…after I force her to kiss her dead betrothed's lips. Oh we will have so much fun…" His eyes glistened with excitement. "We will have so much fun," he repeated.

The library door creaked open. Quick as a flash, Reek grabbed the vixen by the arm and hid the both of them in the first open room…which happened to be one of the dustiest guest chambers he had ever stepped into. Reek sniffed sharply. It had a rather…bloody scent. Animal blood if he was not mistaken.

"What is it?" breathed the vixen Mydea.

Reek sniffed again. Fresh blood. _I haven't killed any animals recently_. Frowning, he released the vixen and stalked to the unused bed. He hissed in rage as he saw the source of the bloody scent.

It was Briony, one of his favourite dogs.

Mydea 's hand flew to her mouth as she came up to him and noticed the dead dog. Reek – no, _Ramsay_ – growled in anger. Briony was his first bitch; he'd raised her for years…ever since he ripped her from her bitch mother's tits the day of his first hunt. The girl, Briony was such good sport that he named his first bitch pup after her. Ramsay named all his dogs after his favourite hunted girls.

"I will hunt them all," Ramsay muttered under his breath. "I will hunt them all. Lord Bolton, Domeric, the Stark bitch...one of them killed my dog." He looked up and stared at Mydea in the eye. This time she did not meet his gaze. "I will be the Lord of the Dreadfort," Ramsay vowed. "No more Reek. When I become lord, I'll be the most remembered Bolton Lord of the Dreadfort." His cold eyes blazed as if they were on fire. "Not for peace, oh no. I will make everyone fear the Boltons as they were once feared. Through great bloodshed."

* * *

 **It was a pretty difficult chapter to write. At first it was alright and I enjoyed writing it, but then as it happens, I didn't save it properly and had to rewrite it -_- As some of you probably know, rewriting a chapter you lost can be irritating and less fun as writing the chapter the first time. I know that the first Reek and second Reek can be confusing, but the next Reek/Ramsay POV will definitely be Ramsay.**


	66. Robb II

Bleary-eyed, Robb sat down at one of the trestle tables and poked his portion of hot porridge with his spoon. On any other morning, he would have been quite ravenously hungry; after a night in the taverns and brothels with Theon Greyjoy, Robb longed for his bed.

 _I am such a fool_ , Robb thought tiredly. _Such a fool. I should not have went with Theon last night._ It had been fun once in a while, sneaking to the taverns, but now with a dozen more responsibilities as heir…

"Why are you still here?" asked Jon, sliding onto the seat opposite him. "Isn't it about time for you to be with Father in his solar? I saw a number of lords already heading to the Great Keep."

"I should have listened to you," Robb grumbled, rubbing his eyes.

Jon cracked a smile. "Theon?" His smile widened as Robb affirmed with a quiet grunt. "You should've just left him in the tavern," said Jon, reaching for a piece of bread, "or the brothel. I don't understand why you wait for him there. You know you have duties to attend to now. Greyjoy can't expect you to be his drinking and whoring companion forever."

Robb nodded half-heartedly. He considered Theon as much his brother as Jon, Bran, Arthur and Rickon and of course Domeric who would be his brother by law in a few months' time. "I should go now," he said, pushing the bowl of porridge to Jon. "Father will be wondering where I am."

"Why are you giving the porridge to me?"

Robb shrugged. "You look hungry." Before Jon could retort, Robb stood up and hurried out of the Great Hall. As he briskly walked to the Great Keep, he glimpsed Dany wandering out of the godswood despondently. She looked so beautiful…yet so sad. Robb wanted to call out to her, ask if she was well – he did not. Her silver-blonde hair fell against her shoulders and her beautiful purple eyes were glazed with thought and contemplation.

"Robb! What are you doing, just standing there?" Robb spun around, blushing as he quickly met the stern gaze of Maester Luwin. "You've been expected in your father's solar for fifteen minutes!" the maester reprimanded. "Must I always be a sort of nursemaid? Coming to find you every time you are expected to greet and speak to your father's bannermen?" He huffed. "You are not a boy anymore, Robb. Now come before Lords Karstark and Umber and your father are forced to wait a minute more for you." Robb followed him inside, his cheeks still hot. He glanced back and saw Dany stare at him, a small smile lingering on her lips.

Robb could not help but grin. _I will speak to her later_ , he decided. Perhaps she missed Lyarra. The two of them were so close when Lyarra was at Winterfell. As close as sisters probably. Maester Luwin looked at Robb. "You are a good lad, you know," he said quietly. "A hardworking young man."

"Thank you Maester," Robb mumbled.

"You should embrace your duties more willingly, Robb. You are still playing as heir, Robb. You must start _acting_ as heir."

Robb frowned. "What do you mean, Maester Luwin? I've been attending all the meetings and petition sessions and I've also discussed sentencing with Father. Is that not embracing my duty?"

"There is more to it than listening in petition sessions and offering little pieces of advice when asked. Try and lead the diplomatic discussion this time, Robb. If your father is called south, you will be acting lord. Northerners will not listen or trust a nervous, silent boy with the name Stark. They want to follow a man. Your father will understand the educational purposes of you leading the conversation, Robb. How did you improve your skills with the sword?"

"Practice."

"How will you improve your skills as a statesman?"

"Practice."

Maester Luwin nodded. "Practice," he repeated. "Practice is key, Robb. I know you'll be a fine lord one day. A just lord. All you need to do is practice." He smiled at him and knocked on the lord's solar. He pushed the door open. "Your son Robb is here my lord," he called. He looked at Robb. _Practice_ , his eyes told him. A little nervous after Maester Luwin's lecture, Robb entered his father's solar. Noticing Lords Karstark and Umber sitting across from Father already did not do much to steady his nerves.

"Robb," Father acknowledged. "I believe you know Lord Karstark and Lord Jon Umber?" He looked at the visiting lords. "My lords, my heir Robb."

"Lord Umber, Lord Karstark," said Robb, smiling politely at the two lords who nodded back at him, grins on their faces. Closest to him was his distant kinsman, Rickard Karstark, Lord of Karhold. He was gaunt and large, taller than Father by half a head. His thick grey hair and beard were loose past his shoulders, touching the brown furred mantle of his bear fur cloak. Though Lord Karstark was tall, Jon 'Greatjon' Umber was even larger, nearly seven feet tall. His mane of brown hair and his beard had greyed quite considerably and his face was ruddier than Lord Karstark's. _Much_ more ruddier.

"I see you have started bringing Robb to meetings," Lord Karstark commented to Father. "I did the same with my heir Harrion when he was Robb's age. Harrion is acting Lord of Karhold now I am here. Last time Harrion was acting lord, a few wildlings were captured and he dispensed justice. He executed them himself." He held Robb's gaze firmly. "One was a child, but the law can be harsh can it not, my lord Stark?" Robb broke away to see Father nod in agreement.

"We will speak more of those bastard wildlings later," spoke Lord Umber. "Let us tell Lord Stark and Robb the good news first."

To Robb's surprise, Lord Karstark nodded. "My good-daughter Jocelyn, Lord Umber's eldest daughter, gave birth to a son, Edwyle. Named after you of course my lord Stark. A healthy boy."

"Congratulations," said Robb warmly. "Both of you must be pleased."

"Delighted!" declared Lord Umber. "Grandfather at last!" He softened. "I would be bloody pleased if it was a girl," he added. "If she was an Umber, I would teach her to wield a sword myself."

"Furthermore," Lord Karstark continued. "My third son Eddard is set to marry Lady Mormont's daughter Lyra. I would be honoured if you, Lady Stark and your children and wards attend. We are kin after all, are we not?"

"When is the wedding my lord?" inquired Father.

"In a few months' time." Lord Karstark's eyes gleamed. "I wish to find Torrhen a wife," he explained. "A double wedding if possible."

Lord Umber snorted. "Why the hurry, Lord Karstark? Are you in fear you'll die without a Karstark heir? Must I remind you that you have three sons, a daughter, a Karstark grandson, at least one uncle and five Karstark cousins?"

Lord Karstark scowled at him. "Too many male heirs are a curse too. My uncle has been eyeing Karhold for _decades_ , my lord Umber. _Decades_. He still hopes that my sons, little Edwyle and I will be all struck dead tomorrow so he can force Alys to marry that horrible son of his. The sooner Alys marries Daryn Hornwood the better for us all."

"Except your uncle," Lord Umber muttered.

"My lords," said Robb quickly before Lord Karstark could reply. "We still have plenty of time to discuss succession crises and the curse of too many sons, but it might be wise to turn the conversation to your concerns? Is that not why both of you travelled to Winterfell, my lords?"

"Young Stark has a point," grunted Lord Umber. "The problems Lord Karstark and I are faced with are _wildlings_ , young Stark." He leant forward. "Have you seen a wildling before, young Stark? Killed one perhaps?"

Robb shook his head. "None have been foolish enough to venture to or close to Winterfell my lord."

"Oh they will soon enough, young Stark. They are growing bolder as we speak. By the end of autumn, they will be here at Winterfell's doorstep." With a satisfied grunt, Lord Umber leant back against his chair. "The Night's Watch is no longer a good defence, young Stark. More wildlings have been seen on my lands and those of Lord Karstark and other nearby lords. Even if we have more men, what are we to do? Execute them all? Only more will come!"

"You do not execute all of them Lord Umber," muttered Lord Karstark, sliding him a knowing look.

 _Bang_.

The cups, ink pot and quills shook as Lord Umber thumped his fist down onto the table ferociously. "That is a filthy lie, Karstark," he growled.

"No violence here please," said Robb calmly. "If you wish to settle an argument through other more aggressive means, do so outside of Winterfell. Both of you've elected to come here to discuss matters _civilly_ , not argue. Lord Umber, what have you been doing to the wildlings if not executing them?"

Lord Umber flushed, his cheeks a shade of angry red. "Men's business," he said, blustering as badly as the Fat Flower of Highgarden. "You are only a boy – one of honour at that too – what do you know about men's business?"

Realisation dawned. " _Oh_ ," said Robb, biting in a blush. " _Oh…_ " He glanced at his father whose expression revealed naught. Was it a crime to bed a wildling? It was no surprise that Lord Umber liked the company of women other than his wife – a wildling though? Furthermore, how in the gods did Lord Karstark discover it? It was one thing to be friendly with your in-laws; Robb doubted Lord Umber would tell such a secret to Lord Karstark over supper. Perhaps Lord Umber allowed it to slip when he drank too much wine one night.

"And your son, Lord Umber?" prompted Lord Karstark.

Lord Umber glowered at him, his thick fingers itching towards his enormous, and rather ugly greatsword. "Lord Umber!" said Robb sharply. "If you plan to kill Lord Karstark, it will be you I behead for kinslaying and murdering a fellow lord of the north. Do you want there to be eternal bloodshed between your House and House Karstark? Do you wish for the north to have our own Blackwood-Bracken feud? We will not appreciate it my lord."

" _BEHEAD ME?_ " Ink skittered all over Father's papers as Lord Umber stood up, glaring down at Robb. "AND WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE TO ISSUE A THREAT TO BEHEAD ME, _BOY?_ "

"Lord Umber-" Father tried to say, but Lord Umber would have none of it. "I'll be _DAMNED_ if I'm to be threatened by a boy," he growled, slamming his fist down on the table again. "Have you even killed a man, boy? Do you know what it is like to take a man's life, eh?"

The door creaked open and Grey Wind padded in. Both the lords stared at him and he stared back with his yellow eyes. Robb smiled. "My lords, I believe you do not need to be introduced to my direwolf, Grey Wind?" Grey Wind uttered a quiet growl, his eyes still fixed on Lord Umber.

Lord Umber did not seem at all impressed or frightened.

"You think I am frightened of a mere dog?" he snarled.

"Lord Umber-" Father attempted again, but Lord Umber seemed to have gone beyond the point of reasoning – and over something Lord Karstark said. As Lord Umber continued ranting, Robb glanced at the Lord Karstark. Though his brown eyes glittered briefly with amusement, he had retained a neutral expression. Last Robb spoke to the two lords were during feasts – both were polite and caused no arguments. It was astonishing how quickly rage overtook Lord Umber.

"LORD UMBER!" Robb shouted, standing up. "THIS IS NOT LAST HEARTH!" He stared at the angry lord straight in the eye. Grey Wind growled again warningly. Robb sighed with relief as sanity seemed to have grasped the Lord of Last Hearth at last. Lord Umber glowered at him for a solid moment before sitting back down grudgingly. "You have a strong voice, young Stark," he acknowledged. "Good for the battlefield. Hmmph. Very good for the battlefield."

"Lord Umber," said Robb, more calmly. "What did Lord Karstark mean by your son? Did he torture a wildling or the like?"

Lord Umber snorted, the red flush on his cheeks disappearing slowly. "If one of my sons did torture a wildling, you should be rejoicing, young Stark. One might finally give up wildling secrets. Highly unlikely, but one could always hope, eh? A wildling is likely to give up information as much as an Other returning!" He then chuckled before darkening. "No, what my son did…it was unforgivable."

"What is it my lord?" inquired Robb carefully.

Lord Umber narrowed his eyes. "Do you think me a bloody fool, boy? Though you are Lord Stark's heir, you are still a boy! I'll not have you running around and telling your friends my secrets." He looked at Father. "My lord Stark, as a favour, can you please dismiss your son?"

* * *

Slightly humiliated at being removed from Father's solar, Robb moped around in the library. He was in no mood to train in the courtyard. As he usually did, Jon would ask how the session in the solar went – Robb had no desire to inform him that it went horribly.

"You need not fear the giants, Robb Stark."

Robb suppressed a groan and forced a smile on his face as he turned and saw the heir of Greywater Watch watching him with his peculiarly green eyes. "Good afternoon Jojen," greeted Robb. "What are you doing here?"

Jojen Reed glanced around at the shelves stuffed with books and then at a few of the ancient scrolls lying on one of the tables. "I trained with Jon in the morning and he suggested I train with you too," he said mildly. "The old gods told me that I would find you here."

"The old gods?" Scepticism entered Robb's voice. He heard that Jojen was not like other crannogmen and received puzzling dreams of sorts. _Green dreams_ , they were called. Robb knew about green dreams from Old Nan's stories, but he never knew any that came true. Jojen Reed was clearly different, but hearing the words from the old gods? Absurd. _. Jojen is a ward here_ , Robb reminded himself. _He's not like Theon or Domeric who are practically your brothers. It will do you no good to doubt his words_. Besides, Father would not appreciate it if it is thought the heir of Greywater Watch was mad or delusional. "Are you certain it was not the maester or one of the servants who told you I was here?" asked Robb.

Jojen shook his head. "Jon said you would usually join him in sparring in a few hours. Well, you did not show up and I had no desire to spar with Theon, so I had decided to go to the godswood instead. It is a place of tranquillity, Robb. If I could, I would stay in the godswood all day. Anyway, when I closed my eyes, I heard the old gods speak to me. They mentioned you."

"I…see. Do you want me to spar with you now?"

"Oh no, Robb. I had enough of sparring this morning. There is something that I must warn you about." He paused. "I had another green dream."

Robb stifled a groan. Another one? "Will you tell my father?"

"It concerns you and the flayed man, Robb Stark. I did not want to worry Lord Stark about it yet."

"Jojen, is this what you told Lyarra before she left? Beware of the flayed man? I believe her betrothed's House sigil is a flayed man."

Jojen shook his head. "I told her she should not go south. Robb, there will be a great deal of bloodshed between you and the flayed man. A bloodbath. I saw the courtyard washed in blood."

"I will keep that in mind," promised Robb. "Where is your sister?"

"Teaching your sister how to hunt frogs," answered Jojen. "Yesterday I saw the Lady Arya showing Lady Stark her first successfully caught frog." He smiled. "I do not think Lady Stark was too pleased at that. I hope you do not take offense, Robb, but I believe Lady Arya would've adapted well to crannogmen culture."

Robb's eyebrows rose. "Are you suggesting you wish to _marry_ Arya?" A Stark had not married a crannogman in centuries!

"Who wishes to marry Arya?" Daenerys walked up to them. "Jojen!" she said in surprise. "I did not see you here!"

"Lady Daenerys Sand," said Jojen, his eyes swivelling to her. "I believe Robb is only japing, Lady Daenerys. I have no intention of wedding the Lady Arya Stark – or anyone for that matter. It is not my destiny to marry and father children or be the next Lord of Greywater Watch. The old gods have plans for me – they have all made plans for all of us. You, Robb, and you, Lady Daenerys too."

Robb automatically moved closer to Dany as she shivered. "I think I will escort Lady Daenerys back to her chambers," he said quickly to Jojen. "I expect I will be seeing you at supper, Jojen?"

The little crannogman nodded. "I will see you at supper Robb Stark." He stared at Dany for a moment. "My lady."

Robb managed a grin and hurriedly led Dany away. "He is so solemn for a boy his age," whispered Dany. "I cannot believe we are older than him."

"Do you know what Theon calls him?"

"Bog devil?"

"Well, that too," Robb conceded. "He also calls him a little grandfather. Doesn't that suit him well though? Little grandfather!" Daenerys laughed. Robb smiled at her. It warmed his heart to hear her giggle and laugh.

Robb hesitated for a moment. "Is there something the matter?" he said finally, halting in his tracks. "I saw you earlier today; you looked upset."

Dany gave him a sad smile. "I could not sleep last night. In the morning, I grew tired of tossing and turning so I decided to pray in the godswood. Well, more like to reminisce in the godswood. The godswood is so quiet – ideal for reminiscing I think. I remember when we were children and would play all day. Monsters-and-maidens was a particular favourite, remember? Come-into-my-castle was one I'd also remembered." Her smile faded slightly. "Do you recall knights and damsels? Lyarra would always be the princess, you and Domeric the knights. Theon would be the villain and Jon would refuse to play."

"You did not either," Robb recalled. "Why not?"

"I did," said Dany secretively. "I would play it with Jon. He would be the knight and I the princess." She blushed. "I didn't want to play it with you and Lyarra and the others as…I am a bastard after all. Not even a northern bastard. Even though I've been living here all my life, but when I look in the mirror, I still see a Dornish girl. A Dornish bastard." The last few words were uttered bitterly.

Robb reached out and squeezed her hand. "You are a northerner and you are a Stark as much as I am," he told her. "Father and Mother raised you a Stark; by the gods, even Theon was raised to be a Stark! If you were my sister, I would insist to the king to legitimise you and Jon as a wedding gift." However, Daenerys was not his half-sister. When Jon was away, Dany had kept him company for quite a bit at breakfast, lunch and supper. She would watch him spar and train and once they'd rode out for a whole day together.

 _You can always marry her_ , whispered a voice in Robb's head. _Wed her and she will no longer be Daenerys Sand. She will be Lady Daenerys Stark, the future Lady of Winterfell_. Robb's grip on Dany's hand tightened.

"What is it?" said Daenerys, concerned.

Marriage…what of Lyanna Baratheon? The friendship between Father and the king? The alliance between the north and south? _Father and Mother love you – it will be easy for them to forgive you_. The northern lords? Surely Robb could not be the first nobleman of the North to consider wedding a Snow (or this case a Sand)! _What of the king?_ Banishing the thoughts of doubt, Robb pulled Daenerys closer to him and pressed his lips against hers.

They stood there for what felt like a hundred years, swaying as passion rose in Robb's heart. He finally broke away but gazed at her, his violet eyes shining with infatuation. He held Dany's hand tighter and said softly, " _Marry me_."

* * *

 **Many of you have commented that Roose wouldn't be so easily fooled by Ramsay being Reek and you're right - he wouldn't be fooled. However, the last chapter was in Ramsay's POV so we technically only know what's happening through Ramsay's perspective and he believes he is fooling Roose. There will be more explanation when it's in Roose's POV (2 chapters' time). I remember reading somewhere that identity is essential in ASOIAF hence Theon and Arya's different chapter names (Eg. Reek, Cat of the Canals...). With Ramsay now planning to remove the Reek disguise, his next POV will be Ramsay. I hope that clears it up for you :)**

 **Now in this chapter, I didn't plan on Robb asking Dany to marry him so soon, but when I wrote it today, it just felt...right? I do need this story to move a little otherwise the characters are kind of just lingering around in the same spot. Oh yes, and I thought Houses Umber and Karstark would have a good relationship/beneficial alliance as their lands are near each other.**


	67. Eddard XII

"Robb," said Ned gently. "You may go. I will speak to you later." Once Robb had left the solar, confusion and humiliation in his eyes, Eddard looked coldly at the Greatjon. "Lord Umber, now that Robb is out of earshot, pray tell me what it is you wish to only speak to me about. If one of your sons had flayed a wildling, I must warn you that there will be consequences for both you and your son."

The Greatjon glared at him. "One of my sons, Robbard, was dispatched to catch the wildlings rumoured to have been sighted near Last Hearth," he admitted. "He is a good lad, loyal and obedient and all that."

"Yes?" said Ned impatiently.

The Lord of Last Hearth darkened. "Robbard fell in love with the wildling bitch he captured. A sly one, that bitch. She seduced my son and he helped her escape. They both ran from my men when I found out the wildling escaped. Robbard had also killed three of my men in the process. _Three_."

"Did he wed her?"

"I'll never have a wildling for a good-daughter, Lord Stark! Why does it matter if Robbard married her or not? Robbard betrayed us all! He could have revealed all our defence secrets to that bitch when they fucked in the woods or something! All I know, Lord Stark, is that they ran south alongside Last River and before they stepped onto Bolton lands, Lord Karstark here caught them himself." He nodded at Lord Karstark who returned a brief nod. "Fortunately, Robbard tried to be one of those foolish southron knights in shining armour and tried to defend his bitch – he was shot in the back by one of Lord Karstark's archers. By then, the men I'd sent after them finally caught up and one of them explained the situation to Lord Karstark. Through ravens, we decided to bring the wildling here."

Ned arched an eyebrow. "You brought a wildling to Winterfell?"

"She is trussed up like a pig," Lord Karstark assured him, "and is safely locked in one of your dungeons already. We told your maester – Luwin isn't it? – about it upon our arrival."

"A little spitfire," grumbled the Greatjon.

Ned drummed his fingers against his table now dusted with ink. "Perhaps this wildling could be of use to us?" he said aloud. "If she is of significant value, maybe there is a chance for us to secure peace – even if it is a temporary one – with the wildlings. Though it is highly unlikely the wildlings will agree to any sort of peace with us, wint _er is_ coming and perhaps with the incentive of food and furs as well as the return of one of their own…"

"You are mad Lord Stark," stated Lord Karstark flatly, crossing his arms. "Why waste our much-needed stores on wildlings when they've survived the worst of winters without our help before? This is not the south, Lord Stark. Handing over a hostage for peace…" He shook his head. "Wildlings will not reason with that. I'd wager they are under the belief that the wildling in our…care is already dead. No, I say we torture her for answers."

"What use is torturing her?" questioned Ned. "She would not reveal anything." He didn't add that the wildling might only taunt them further. "However, I'll send ravens to the lords to inform them to keep a firmer eye on the wildlings," he said, changing the subject a little. "I will send some men to join Lady Mormont's and a few will go back to Last Hearth with you Lord Umber. If needed, some more men will be sent to the northern mountain clans as well." He paused. "For now, all the executions for common criminals will cease."

"What?" said Lord Umber, astonished.

"Why my lord?" demanded Lord Karstark with a frown.

Ned held up an ink splattered letter from Jeor Mormont. "The Night's Watch. It is still desperately in need for more men to man the Wall. Both of you are aware I am a man of justice, yes?" The two lords nodded. "With the sole exception of the deserters of the Night's Watch, I always give a convicted man the option of either being executed or to take the black. I know not all of you give that choice. For the next few months, if you are to dispense justice, send the criminals to the Wall. All of them. What is to stop the wildlings from invading us? The Wall. How long will it last without more men?"

Lord Umber nodded thoughtfully. "The wildlings have grown bolder."

"The Night's Watch is no longer as prestigious as it once was," said Ned with a sad sigh. "Younger sons of nobles no longer choose to take the black willingly and the majority of the Night's Watch are made up of criminals. We cannot force our younger sons to join the Night's Watch. The most we can do is ensure the Wall is supplied with _all_ our thieves, rapists and criminals." He was not pleased at all of the idea of allowing killers to escape death, but Starks and the Night's Watch had always held a close bond. Over the years, Lord Commander Mormont had sent a flurry of requests for more men – Ned had sent as many as he could.

"What of the wildlings themselves?" challenged the Greatjon. "Are we to send them to the Wall as well?"

"Perhaps," murmured Ned. "Perhaps not."

"Would it not be better to kill the wildlings on sight?" asked Lord Karstark. "It would surely be better to kill one than release him back only to catch him again. I do not see the point in sending wildlings to the Wall."

"We should fight them," said the Greatjon decidedly. "We have far more better weapons than them. It would be a rather easy victory."

"No!" said Ned sharply. "That is a most foolish move, Lord Umber. We cannot underestimate the wildlings. We may have apparently superior weapons, but you must keep in mind that the wildlings _raid_ and _steal_ our weapons too. Though the wildlings tend to use weapons forged of stone, wood and bronze, you must keep in mind that they steal our weapons too. It might be said that the wildlings have a stronger advantage over us as their women fight too."

"The Mormont women fight," the Greatjon pointed out, "as do some women in my family. The ones who were fostered at Bear Island," he added helpfully. "I can assure you, Lord Stark, that not all my female relatives are fighters. In fact, one of my younger daughters is unusually graceful in her movement. Shy girl too. A pity your heir is betrothed to Princess Lyanna. He might be quite taken with my Lyra. Or Raya if he prefers a more…lively woman."

Lord Karstark cleared his throat. "Robb Stark is affianced to Princess Lyanna," he reminded him not kindly. "Besides, if Robb was not betrothed-"

"My lords," Ned interrupted. "Shall we return to the wildling matter? I believe it is the more crucial one."

"Fuck the wildlings," grumbled Greatjon Umber. "All they cause is trouble. Too much of it." He stood up. "Shall we speak more of this later? Thinking of wildlings is making my head ache." Ned and Lord Karstark stood up too. "We will discuss it later," Ned agreed. "I will have one of my men show you to the Great Hall. Both of you must be hungry."

"Starving, Lord Stark," declared the Greatjon. "Absolutely famished. The talk of wildlings is exhausting and frustrating. Lord Karstark, this may sound like an odd request, but may I have a moment alone with Lord Stark? To discuss another," He paused, "more private matter. On my honour, Lord Karstark. It would not last at all longer than a minute." Lord Karstark nodded. He dipped his head at both him and Ned and headed out.

"My son was an utter fool, Lord Stark," murmured Greatjon Umber quietly. "A fool, but he was still my son. All young boys make mistakes – none of them can be as honourable and patient as their fathers and forefathers. My men told me that Robbard kept fighting for love till the bitter end. The wildling girl…my son died a fool in love. She laughed when that arrow killed him. _Laughed_. Robbard is – _was_ – one of my younger sons, Lord Stark. A year or two older than your Jon Snow. Did not know much in the field of love. I want that wildling _dead_ , Lord Stark. All she'd done to my son…" His voice shook. "She deserves death."

"I'm sorry," said Ned awkwardly. "I really am."

"The men wanted to leave Robbard's body there," Lord Umber went on. "They said that Robbard consorted with wildlings and is no longer a true northerner. It was said that he did not deserve to be buried in the Umber crypts."

"Bury him in your crypts," murmured Ned. "He is your blood, your son. No one will know of it, my lord. Leave for Last Hearth early with a few trusted men. Find your son's body and take him home."

"And the wildling?"

Ned looked at him steadily. "I will question her immediately. I cannot promise you anything Lord Umber, but I will speak to her."

* * *

Before Ned could head down to the dungeons, he was met by Maester Luwin in the corridor. "Maester," said Ned tightly. "Perhaps we can talk at a later time? I must question the wildling prisoner."

"You have more guests Lord Stark," said the maester patiently. "Your brother the First Ranger and a few other black brothers."

Ned stared at him. "Benjen is here?" The last time he had seen his brother was, well, quite some time ago. During Benjen's first few years in the Night's Watch, a flurry of long, detailed letters were sent between the two. Now that Benjen was a ranger – the First Ranger no less – the number of letters had drastically lessened to about a few letters a year. Ned did not feel upset at all; he was pleased that his brother was too busy to write. Benjen had risen in the ranks of the Night's Watch due to merit, not name. It was something to be proud of.

The wildling matter slipping to the back of his mind, Ned hurried to the Great Hall, a smile appearing on his face as he spotted Benjen accepting a cup of mead from one of the servants. "Benjen!" Ned called, striding towards him. "Or should I call you First Ranger Stark?"

Benjen grinned at him. "Ned! You look well! How are the children?"

"Some are children no longer," Ned responded, embracing him warmly. "This is quite unexpected, Brother. I did not receive a raven stating that you and a few others of the Night's Watch are to visit today."

"I did not have time to send a raven, Ned." His smile dissipated a little. "On the orders of the new Lord Commander-"

" _New_ Lord Commander?"

"Yes." Benjen looked surprised. "Did you not hear? The Old Bear was killed at least a few months ago. Surely you'd have heard about it Ned! There was another election and Denys Mallister, the former Commander of the Shadow Tower, won. He is now the 998th Lord Commander. If you ask me, it was a very close election, especially between Ser Denys and Cotter Pyke, Commander of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. I'm certain Lord Commander Mallister would've sent you a raven informing you about the change in lord commanders?"

"I did not receive a raven Benjen. How did the Old Bear die?"

Benjen sighed heavily. "Have you received much news from the Wall at all?"

Ned shook his head. "Only letters requesting more men."

"Odd, Brother. So much has happened." He grew serious. "Ned, I must ask you. Were you aware that your former ward Ser Waymar Royce disappeared a couple of years ago on his first ranging expedition?"

"No!" Ned exclaimed. "I was never told this!"

"As I thought. I doubt Lord Royce was told either. A few others have vanished as well and of course most of the men blamed the wildlings. When Ser Denys was still the Commander of the Shadow Tower, he informed us of the queerest sights: mountain people moving south in numbers greater than before and discovery of wildling villages fully abandoned. Huge fires at night have also been sighted. Odd, do you not agree? On a more regular note, he also told us that there was a higher rise of wildlings attempting to sneak past the Shadow Tower. Some were caught, others killed on sight. It was not long before the Old Bear decided to organise the great ranging with a number of goals such as discovering why the wildlings who lived close to the Wall were leaving their villages and an attempt to find Waymar and the other missing men and…" He faltered. "Other occurrences."

"Like what?"

Benjen hesitated. "It is mostly dealing with wildlings I believe. Anyway, in the great ranging expedition, we took about three hundred sworn brothers beyond the Wall, including the Tarly boy-"

"What Tarly boy?"

"Samwell Tarly. Lord Tarly's son. You don't recall him? He is a sight one would not easily forget. Very fat with a large moon-shaped face. Ser Alliser had wanted to keep him in training for a few more years before he was sworn into the Night's Watch, but I pitied him. He was hopeless with the sword and shield, Ned. It was no surprise Lord Tarly was disappointed in him. I suggested for Samwell to join the Citadel and train as a maester instead, but he…grew frightened very quickly." He sighed again, this time more with pity. "He was quite clever though. I told the Lord Commander and Maester Aemon that he would make a fine addition in the stewards." He smiled. "It is much better having Samwell in the library than Chett. Much better indeed.

"Anyway, enough of Samwell Tarly." His smile disappeared. "The ranging trip was an utter failure," he confessed, glancing at his gloomy-faced sworn brothers who had not moved from their seats. "Oh we did discover certain information…at the cost of so many lives. If that was not the worst, there was the mutiny."

Ned bit his lip. "Mutiny at Castle Black?"

"No. Craster's keep."

Ned shuddered. Craster was almost like a northern equivalent of Lord Walder Frey. He'd never met Craster, but from what he heard, Craster was one of the few wildlings who bore no hatred towards the Night's Watch. Though said to be less prickly than the Lord of the Crossing, he did surpass Lord Frey in wives…who'd happened to be his daughters too. No doubt many of the black brothers would've loved to kill him for his incestuous ways, but he was at most a tenuous ally to the Night's Watch. He was said to provide food, shelter and information to the black brothers which was generous of him. "How is old Craster?"

"Dead."

" _Dead?_ "

"There was a mutiny at his keep. Many of my sworn brothers were killed and a lot of Craster's uh, daughter-wives raped. Craster himself was killed as was Lord Commander Mormont. Before he died, Mormont had ordered me and a couple of others to return straight to Castle Black to relay the information we gathered to a few – if not all – the remaining commanders."

"What is this information?"

Benjen looked uncomfortable. "Lord Commander Mallister ordered me not to tell you or anyone else – for now. He does want me to inform you to keep a close eye out for deserters though. And wildlings of course."

"We must speak more of this later Benjen." Ned looked at the other two black brothers. "You are welcome to stay at Winterfell for the night," he informed them kindly. "I will have guest chambers prepared for you."

"Thank you milord Stark," said one, raising a cup to him. "We plan to leave for more recruiting tomorrow morning."

Ned nodded. "I'll ensure you have supplies for your journey." He turned back to Benjen. "You are the First Ranger – why are you recruiting? Should you not be somewhere beyond the Wall, ranging?"

"Technically yes," his brother admitted. "However I was patrolling with a few men in the Haunted Forest when we received word from Cotter Pyke to help aid his men in an unexpected wildling confrontation at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. When we arrived, Pyke told us that he caught sight of wildlings on Brandon's Gift. All of the wildlings were killed with the exception of a few who managed to escape the bloodshed and fled south onto Umber land. My brothers" – he nodded at the two black brothers present – "and I chased after them immediately. Sadly they had a head start of half a day. The most we could do was send ravens to Lords Karstark and Umber. When we heard the lords were journeying here, we decided to come as well. Might as well recruit on the way too."

The wildling prisoner returned to Ned's mind. "We will see the wildling now if you so wish," Ned offered. "She's in the dungeons." Benjen nodded. As the two of them headed to the dungeons, Ned glanced at his brother. Benjen had grown and had a dishevelled beard now. Though his eyes remained a bright shade of blue, it felt different. _Benjen has seen horrors_ , Ned thought wretchedly. _He's seen horrors much worse than what I've seen._ It was so difficult seeing Benjen as First Ranger – Ned still viewed him as his little brother.

 _He is no longer afraid of the dungeons_ , Ned contemplated as the dungeon doors creaked open. Last Benjen had set foot in the dungeons, he had been a boy, afraid of the dungeons' darkness and shadows. Benjen glanced at Ned. "Have you asked her anything yet, Ned?"

Ned shook his head. "You arrived before I could."

"I suspect Lord Umber wants to torture her?"

 _Greatjon Umber wants her dead_. "All the lords want answers I suspect. Benjen, I must ask…" Ned hesitated. "Have you…?"

"Tortured a man?" inquired Benjen calmly. Ned nodded. To his relief, Benjen shook his head. "I've killed though," Benjen said quietly. "Mostly wildlings, but I'd killed men _and_ women. At first I was shocked at my actions, but afterwards…it is a bad feeling, that is all. I chose to be a sworn brother of the Night's Watch and if killing is a part of the job, I will do so."

"Have you killed any deserters?"

"No. Would it count as kinslaying if I do?"

Ned thought for a moment. "They are your sworn brothers," he acknowledged slowly, "I have executed at least four deserters in the past year. One of them kept saying the others were coming. He was speaking of the wildlings was he not?"

Benjen bit his lip. "I suppose he was."

Ned glanced at him suspiciously. There was something afoot…something that the members of the Night's Watch wanted to remain a secret. Benjen never had a knack for lying. It seemed that all the Starks were terrible liars. "I'm your brother and the Lord of Winterfell Ben," he said gently. "if there is a problem at the Wall, I can help. You know that. Is it more men you need?"

"We always need more men Ned. It's that most of our experienced fighters are now dead – how many knights and soldiers are willing to help man the Wall? Not enough. The Wall is like a dumping ground for criminals, Ned. In the expedition, I wager it was a former criminal that started the mutiny at Craster's keep. If that is not all, with the threat of a vast wildling invasion looming…" Benjen sighed. "It is a nightmare, Ned. An utter nightmare. We need experienced men and there is the chance of the-" He broke off as he caught sight of the wildling prisoner.

For Ned himself, it was the first time he came face to face with a wildling. For a prisoner, she was certainly _very_ well restrained inside the prison cell. Greatjon or Lord Karstark had her wrists and ankles tied with strong pieces of rope and she was also chained to the wall. It was a little excessive, but then again, the prisoner was a wildling and no doubt adept at escaping from confined spaces.

"You."

The wildling looked at Ned and then at Benjen. Her mouth formed into a snarl as she stared at Benjen. "You!" she spat angrily.

Benjen crossed his arms. "Well," he said as Ned looked at both him and the girl prisoner in surprise. "Ygritte is it not? I told you we will meet again. It seems I get the pleasure of killing you after all."

* * *

 **I considered using Smalljon but decided to use an OC child of Greatjon Umber in case I plan to do something else with Smalljon Umber. This chapter was actually quite different to what I originally planned as when I was writing it, I realised that even though I dislike the White Walker part of ASOIAF, I've already included the wildlings and the Others and wrights pretty much need to be included too. Would you guys prefer the Roose chapter next or do you want a southron chapter? Any POVs you really want to read next?**


	68. Roose I

A ghostly smile appeared on Lord Roose's face as one of his nervous servants gingerly plucked the leeches from his arms. "The Leech Lord," he was called – not in his presence of course. Roose rather liked it. _The Leech Lord_. A nickname that struck fear right in the heart of his enemies.

"Milord?" whispered the servant, glancing fearfully at the door. "Milord? I um, I believe there is someone at the door."

Roose's pale eyes swivelled to him. Both he and the servant heard the tapping on the door as Roose stared at the servant for a good minute. "Then what are you waiting for?" said Roose softly, pleased to see the servant flinch and look away. "I do not like having visitors…waiting."

"Aye milord."

Roose sat up as the last of the leeches was back in the large, round, glass jar. It was always quite refreshing after a long leeching session. Roose rolled down the sleeves of his black long-sleeved padded leather tunic and crossed the room in a few strides to his desk. He was a man of habit: every morning he would summon Maester Tybald and read and discuss the letters and the Dreadfort followed by a light breakfast with Domeric and the Lady Lyarra in the Great Hall. After that, he would return to his chambers for an hour or two of writing and dealing with the problems on his lands. It would usually last longer than two hours but never than five. Though his table would be a mess by then, Roose would always make a little time to tidy it up before calling in the servant for a bit of leeching.

The servant cleared his throat nervously. "It is Mydea milord."

The smiling bastard girl closed the door behind her and beamed at Roose who remained stoic and still. "I thought you would like a report milord," she said with a broad grin. "I came as quickly as I could."

"What of the Lady Lyarra?" said Roose dryly. "She wouldn't be pleased to find her maidservant gone from her duties."

"The Lady Lyarra is riding with Lord Domeric milord."

Good. Very good indeed. "How is…Reek?"

"Cruel as usual milord. Spoke dangerous words too. He is under the belief that you will acknowledge him as your heir if anything happens to Lord Domeric. He's done many horrible deeds, milord. I do not think he plans on stopping even if he does happen to be named…heir." Roose stared at her icily. "Reek also thinks that he will be taking Lady Lyarra as wife," Mydea Snow continued. "Milord, there is a more…serious matter."

"What is it?" said Roose quietly, alert.

"Reek found one of his hounds dead in a spare chamber and has sworn to kill whoever was responsible for killing his dog."

Roose crossed his arms. "A foolish move. What does he think of you?"

Mydea flashed him another smile. "An ally and a lover, milord. Mostly a lover. I know he will never marry me – and I do not wish to marry him – but I must say, I find it oddly amusing when I remind him of his promise to wed me."

"He promised he would marry you?"

"Pillow talk I believe milord." She smirked like a sly whore. "What harm was it in him declaring such a promise?"

"Has he started plotting to kill Domeric?"

"I believe he was in the kitchens before discovering his dead dog milord. If you do not trust my word, you can ask the cook."

"I intend to. Reek believes he's fooled me does he not?" The corner of Roose's thin lips twitched. It was humiliating that one of his own blood thought he could fool him just by declaring himself to be a servant. Fool. Bastard or no, surely one of Bolton blood would be more intelligent and sneaky. It could be seen as idiotic of Roose to have accepted his tyrant of a bastard into his own castle. For one, not many lords take their bastards into their homes at all, with the exception of Lord Stark and no doubt a few Dornish lords who thought procreation the act of love rather than one of duty. For another, there was always the lingering concern that the mad bastard would murder Domeric.

Roose had no intention of losing his only son and heir but he had no desire to have a mad dog running on his lands, raping women and hunting them down like deer. Oh no, better the mad dog in sight than not. Besides, the Dreadfort servants were obviously more in fear of him than Reek and a little reward once in a while to particular servants was very helpful. Indeed, giving praise and incentive was a vital part of watching Reek though Roose despised rewarding servants.

"Reek is a mad dog," Roose murmured more to himself than to Mydea. "A mad dog cannot be allowed to live now can it?" But how to remove Reek…oh, it would have been a relief if the first Reek killed him as was planned all those years ago. A pity it was the first Reek who died when he and the bastard tried to infiltrate the Dreadfort. The guards still thought it was Ramsay Snow that they killed and Reek who returned; he, Mydea Snow, the cook and a couple of other servants knew the truth. None of the servants would dare to utter a single word about Reek – Roose had already threatened to rip their tongues out.

"How milord?"

A good question that Roose had thought about for many nights. There were a number of northern laws Roose and his ancestors had broken. Flaying of course, and the practice of first night for another. Kinslaying though…that was different – Roose had no intention of being branded a kinslayer. Thinking of killing Ramsay was one matter, but _actually_ killing him…

No. Killing Ramsay would end House Bolton's prestige forever.

"He will be dead soon enough," said Roose harshly.

"And me milord?" asked Mydea.

"You will be rewarded as promised." He lowered his voice. "If you even think to breathe a word of this to Reek, I promise you the consequences will be indeed horrible for you. Do you understand?"

"Yes milord. Will I be a lady by the end of the year milord?"

Roose looked coldly at her. "Bastards will never rise to be ladies, Mydea. Who in their right mind would marry a bastard? If you continue keeping an eye on the mad dog and keep silent about it, you will be well provided for and will be wed to a wealthy merchant by the end of the year. Better a rich tradesman's wife than a bastard girl do you not think, Mydea Snow?"

"Yes milord. I thank you for your generosity."

Whether Mydea Snow was mocking him or not, Roose did not care. As long as she continued watching Reek and keeping her mouth shut, she would stay alive a day or two longer. Usually Roose would not take Snows in to be servants, but the usefulness of Mydea Snow was that not only was she an illegitimate child, but she was an orphan and formerly the unwanted ward of one of his older soldiers who was more than happy to rid himself of the girl. The soldier was now dead from an old wound infection and buried and Mydea had no living relations alive. Once the mad dog Reek was dead and buried and it came to rewarding the servants, not all of them would be rewarded. Oh the cook would be praised for keeping an eye out on Reek and given an extra pouch of coins, but that was it. As for the sly, devious, little minx Mydea Snow…her plump lips would be kissing the cold, rich earth by the beginning of winter.

Mydea Snow was a fool for believing she would be richly rewarded.

"Leave now," ordered Roose. "I expect to see you here again in a few days as it was agreed. Now _leave_."

* * *

"Father. We must talk."

Roose finished scrawling the sentence on the piece of parchment on the table in front of him and put down his quill. He turned and gestured for his son to sit. "I was about to summon you," he said softly. "Indeed we must talk. You first, Son. Is there something you are not pleased with?"

"There have been a couple of rather strange occurrences in the castle Father," said Domeric solemnly. "As your heir apparent, it is my duty to inform you of it. I noticed that the cook had been more careless of late in preparing meals and...I've been smelling rotting meat and blood more." He looked hesitantly at Roose. "Is it um, normal at this time of year or is there something I must know?"

"The servants and the cook will be reprimanded at once," said Roose calmly. "I have been aware of those points too. In fact, I've already spoken to the cook a few hours ago. Tonight's supper will hopefully be more edible."

Domeric nodded. "There is another matter. It regards my manservant."

"Reek?"

"Yes Father. Reek." Domeric's expression contorted into one of discomfort. "It is rude of me to criticise a servant behind his back, but there is something queer about him. He smiles too much, as if he knows a jape that I didn't know of. Smiles every time I give him an order too. This might sound rather childish and foolish I admit, but I do not feel safe with a manservant like Reek in my chambers. For the last few nights, I had to ensure the door locked before I slept. There is more. I've spoken to Lyarra and she too suspects something odd about her own handmaid – Mydea Snow I believe her name is." He leant forward and looked at Roose almost earnestly. "Father, I must ask. Did you not find anything…anything remotely odd about Reek and Mydea when you appointed them here? Surely the name Reek is strange in itself!"

Roose was silent as he carefully decided what to tell him. "You well know that I appreciate hardworking men," he said finally. Domeric nodded. "Ser Darvus – I always considered him one of my most loyal and trustworthy soldiers. He died a few weeks ago, leaving his unmarried ward Mydea. To honour Ser Darvus, I took the girl in and gave her a position in the Lady Lyarra's service."

"Why did you not just marry her off?"

"I could have done that," Roose acknowledged. "However it's considered more an honour to serve in the lord's household is it not?"

Domeric nodded uncertainly.

"Good. Now that it is sorted, there is another matter I wish to discuss with you. Your grandfather Lord Ryswell, is critically ill. Lady Dustin wrote that he may not live to see winter and requests your presence at the Rills. You _are_ Lord Ryswell's sole surviving grandchild after all." Roose did not mention that Domeric had also reminded the now senile and sick Lord Rodrick Ryswell of the Lady Bethany, his dead daughter and Roose's late wife. "You will leave in two days," Roose went on. "If I'd received Lady Dustin's raven earlier, I would've instructed you to travel to the Rills immediately after the Highgarden celebrations. There is no point having you and Lady Lyarra journeying here only to travel halfway south again. Indeed a pity the raven did not arrive earlier."

"I do not mind riding back to Winterfell again," said Domeric, brightening up a great deal. "Maester Tybald said riding is beneficial."

Roose couldn't resist an indulgent smile. "You enjoy riding, Domeric. You have inherited that from your late mother's family. You and Lady Lyarra will both ride back to Winterfell and then to the Rills. It will take you no longer than seven days I believe. I know you like Winterfell, but do not linger there. Stay a night and then continue your journey."

"Very well Father. Will that be all?"

"There is the matter of Barrowton."

Domeric frowned. "What about it Father?"

"Your aunt Barbrey is a Dustin by marriage. She has no Dustin sons and there are no male Dustins alive. As Lady Dustin has no intention of wedding, there is a strong chance that upon her death, Barrowton will be controlled by Lord Stark. It might be the new keep for one of his younger sons or he might give it to a lord or knight descended from the Dustins or perhaps to one of his loyal supporters. You have a strong chance of inheriting Barrowton, Domeric. Are you aware of that? I see you look surprised."

"I know the Ryswells and Dustins have always been close…"

" _Very_ close allies, Domeric. Lord Ryswell's great, great grandmother was sister to a Dustin lord and your own great, great, great, great grandmother a Dustin too. Not only that, but you are Lord Stark's prospective good-son." Roose's pale eyes glittered. "Now would that not be a wonderful legacy, Domeric? House Bolton of the Dreadfort and Barrowton. Of course when you have a second son, he'll be the next Lord of the Barrowton."

Domeric did not look excited, more…concerned. "Lord Stark will not name me Lord of Barrowton Father. Though our House is now allied to his, it would not be easy for him to forget all the bloodshed spilled between our Houses in the past. I am certain Lord Stark will give Barrowton to either Bran or Rickon when they're of age or to another Northern House."

"What if Lady Dustin writes a will naming you as her heir?"

"It will be an honour to be Lord of Barrowton, but maintaining control of both our lands and the Barrowlands will be so difficult as they're so far apart. It would be much easier if we are given say, the Hornwood. Besides Father, I'm content to be only Lord of the Dreadfort upon your death. If after the wedding Lord Stark wishes to honour me further, I will happy to accept."

Roose refrained himself from giving his heir a disdainful look. Domeric was all he wanted for an heir…but all that honour! _The result of his fosterage at Winterfell,_ Roose decided. The Starks were once more wild than honourable – thanks to Ned Stark's own fostering at the Eyrie, now the Starks and all future Starks would be more honourable than wild. He hoped his future grandsons would be more eager to control the Barrowlands when the time came.

"I will have my own servants help you pack," said Roose, changing the subject abruptly. "Not that you and Lady Lyarra require much packing, eh? I will speak to Reek. If it comes to it, I will sew his lips shut myself." Domeric flinched. "I jape of course," said Roose, standing up. He wondered if tutoring Domeric in a few basic torture techniques was necessary. It would be shocking if in a century's time the northerners no longer fear the 'honourable' House Bolton. _No._ It's better to leave

Domeric alone. Perhaps in a few decades there would be a Bolton-blooded Lord of Winterfell. A pleasant thought indeed.

"I…see," said Domeric falteringly. "I will see you at supper then, Father." Roose nodded and watched him stand up and leave. Roose waited a few minutes before he too walked out, closing the door behind him and locking it. He trusted that his heir would not pry in his affairs, but Reek?

Roose silently made his way to Domeric's chambers, knowing Domeric himself would be off to the godswood to tell the Lady Lyarra the news of Lord Ryswell's illness. Lord Ryswell was an odd fellow. A keen lover of horses like that cripple of Highgarden and a couple of Dornish lords. Roose cringed as he remembered the time Lord Ryswell _insisted_ on naming his third and youngest son after him. If that was not awful enough, Lord Ryswell then held a feast. "In honour of the Ryswell-Bolton alliance," he had explained. Roose shuddered. He never believed or liked the practice of naming children after loved ones, friends or the dead. From what Roose heard at suppers and breakfasts, he was to expect a Lady Bethany Bolton as one – most likely the first – of his granddaughters.

Expelling that thought from his mind, Roose pushed open the door to his son's rooms and watched as Reek fiddled with Domeric's stack of clothes. Reek looked up and his wormy, thick lips formed a sly smile. "Milord," he said, his long, dark, dry hair falling down to frame his face as he dipped his head.

"Reek I believe," said Roose, maintaining an expressionless exterior.

"At your service milord." Roose's lips twitched with disgust. Reek's words…it sounded as if they were dipped in the slimy swamps of the Neck. As if sensing his revulsion, Reek's grin widened, showing his filthy teeth. Roose scrutinised him as he licked his lips. _Reek is no Bolton_. The only physical Bolton resemblance Roose recognised was his pair of small, close-set and oddly pale eyes that were like two chips of dirty ice.

"How do you find the Dreadfort?" Roose asked casually. He watched as Reek's eyes brightened in delight. _He thinks he has fooled me_.

"I am grateful," Reek said with a smirk. "Very grateful milord. Work is hard to find these days – and serving the heir of the Dreadfort! An honour indeed. I thank the gods every day for my luck. Does milord need anything? I am a good hunter if milord wishes to have a hunting partner. I will be honoured to shoot down a deer or a bear for you milord."

 _And anyone I despise to gain my favour, eh?_ Roose shook his head. "A kind offer Reek," he said shortly, "but I rather hunt alone." A small lie. In truth, Roose liked to hunt by himself, but anyone could wish him dead and it would be simple to kill him in a hunt. Shoot him in the back and pretend it was a hunting accident; push him into a creek and feign a hunting mishap.

Any method of killing him in the woods could be put down to hunting accident. Even hitting him on the head with a rock.

"Have you ever flayed a man, Reek?"

At least Reek had the sense to look uncertain. "I have seen it done milord," he said with care. Roose smiled. _A little clever aren't you? We both know you like to think yourself an expert flayer._ Regardless, Roose was prepared to play along with this farce for a while longer.

"It is a delicate art, to flay a man," said Roose softly. "To create the perfect skin cloak, the perfect skin blanket…very delicate."

"I…suppose milord."

"You suppose," repeated Roose with a quiet laugh. "You said you've watched a person flayed, did you not? When was this?"

"A…a few months ago milord."

"Was it on my land? If it was, it is an offence not to report a crime. Flaying is an art no longer appreciated, Reek. Banned, according to northern law. The Lords of Winterfell want all criminals punished - are you a criminal, Reek? Watching one be flayed is a crime too." It pleased Roose to see Reek hesitate. "As you said, it's a great honour to serve my son," Roose went on. "A privilege too. I cannot possibly have a criminal awarded such honour."

"I am no criminal milord," grunted Reek, his thick fingers twitching.

Roose smiled. "Tell me more about yourself. Are you a commoner? A farmer or a miller? A…bastard?" Reek's eyes flashed with anger.

"I am no bastard milord," said Reek, grinding his teeth.

"Of course," said Roose smoothly. "Reek Snow…" He smiled as Reek glowered at him. "I expect you will continue serving Domeric until you are no longer able?" he said pleasantly. "All my servants do. No exceptions. I trust you will be loyal to my son, wouldn't you Reek?"

Reek – more like Ramsay now – glowered like a rabid dog who was denied his favourite play toy or his food. "Yes milord," he said, his fingers curled into fists. "I will be a… _loyal_ servant."

 _No you wouldn't. The moment Domeric returns here, you will kill him. You are still jealous of him. You will never rest until Domeric is dead_. Roose wanted to stab the miller's wife. Foolish bitch! If she had not told Ramsay that he was the father, there would be peace in his lands and at the heart of the Dreadfort. _I should have had the bastard killed when he was still a babe in arms_. Roose took a step towards Reek who did not budge from his spot.

"Are you not tired of all this…charade?" whispered Roose. "We both know you will not be a loyal servant. I know who you are. You see, I knew Reek very well. It was my duty to whip him twice a dozen times when he'd doused himself with my late wife's perfume." He smiled as 'Reek's' pale eyes shone with uncertainty. "Oh, he carried the worst of stenches wherever he went. He would bathe thrice a day and wear flowers in his hair. Nothing worked to rid him of that awful stench. Do you honestly think I would believe you to be Reek?"

'Reek' said naught, but his thick lips curved into another grin. "So you know I am not Reek _my lord_ ," he rasped, an evil glint in his eye. "Every man must have a name though. Who am I, _my lord?_ "

Roose had no intention of satisfying him with the answer 'Reek' longed for.

 _"A bastard."_

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter. I understand if some of you find it annoying that in one chapter Domeric and Lyarra are at the Dreadfort and the next they'll be probably travelling or arriving at the Rills, but it is 301 AC and no doubt some people who are still alive in the ASOIAF books should be dying around 301 AC due to old age or illness at least. Normally the standard Stark look is grey eyes, but in Benjen Stark's AWOIAF wiki page, it says he has blue eyes. My guess is that he inherited it from his mother's side of the family.**


	69. Eddard XIII

"Lord Stark, may I have a moment alone with the prisoner?"

Ned nodded, shocked at his brother's cold tone. "I'll be in the solar if you need me," he said, retreating slowly. "Oh and Benjen, please do not kill her yet." Benjen the boy would not hurt a fly; Benjen the man? All Ned could do was hope Benjen would not kill the wildling out of anger or possibly revenge.

Leaving Benjen alone with the wildling prisoner, Ned walked speedily back to the solar, his mind preoccupied with the thought of wildlings. _Wildlings are bold – bolder than before_ , he pondered. _The great ranging ending in failure with most of the black brothers dead, more wildlings slipping past the Wall…that cannot be a mere accident._ Something big was happening…something beyond the Wall. There were more deserters too – the men of the Night's Watch were aware of it yet they were ordered to keep it quiet…

Odd and suspicious.

Surprise caught Ned again when he climbed the stairs to his solar and saw the heir of Greywater Watch waiting for him. _Another vision?_ By the gods, if Jojen was not Howland's son…

"Jojen," said Ned, attempting to smile warmly at the solemn boy. "Are you lost or in search for one of my sons or Theon?"

Jojen shook his head. "I know where they are Lord Stark. After a few days here, I noticed you and your family enjoy following a certain routine. Even Lady Arya I believe. She tries to escape sewing with the septa, hides somewhere, is found and sent back to the schoolroom and then berated. It seems it's in Lady Arya's habit to hunt frogs with my sister every second day now."

Ned chuckled. "She proudly presented me two frogs yesterday at supper time. She was all mud-covered and filthy. You should've seen my lady wife's face." He paused for a moment. "You were not there at supper yesterday."

"I was in the godswood my lord."

"You enjoy the solitude?"

"One is never alone when speaking to the old gods."

"Of course. Do you have another vision you wish to discuss with me?"

Jojen stared at him, deep in thought. "Not exactly," he said finally. "It's a rather delicate matter Lord Stark. I am afraid it relates to the vision. My father said that you have led the North into prosperity and peace after the fall of the Targaryens. When I first started receiving green dreams, there is one I still remember. It was of the sun rising. Under it was an island that held seven castles. Suddenly, the sun disappeared and was replaced by a brewing storm. The sea boiled and then…the oddest thing happened."

"What?"

"Snow…snow sprinkled atop the castles. Lord Stark, I know you do not think a lot of that vision and it sounds ridiculous, what I'd seen with my own eyes earlier today…" Jojen shook his head.

"What did you see today, Jojen?"

Jojen fidgeted with a piece of green cloth, unable to meet his eye. "I fear I'll be losing Robb's trust in me, Lord Stark," mumbled Jojen.

Ned's heart lurched. A hundred different scenarios played in his head, ranging from Robb fathering bastards to Robb murdering a man in cold blood. "Robb will never know it's you who told me," Ned assured him. "I swear by the old gods and new, Jojen. Now tell me, what was it you saw?"

"The smallest action…" Jojen murmured more to himself. "The smallest action will always be the deadliest. The most innocent of words may break a brotherly bond even. The best of friends…to the worst of enemies."

"Jojen, what did you see?"

"Robb and Lady Daenerys," said Jojen in a rush. "We were in the library and I went to examine some of the old books. I did not mean to eavesdrop Lord Stark, I really didn't. When I was looking at a book about Winterfell, I overhead…I heard Robb proposing to Daenerys."

Ned's mouth dropped open. " _What?_ "

"Robb proposed to Lady Daenerys Lord Stark. I know Robb is still betrothed to Princess Lyanna and I didn't know what to do…"

"You did the right thing informing me," said Ned, his head whirling at the new information Jojen told him. "There is still time…" Was there? The signs had been present for years yet he did naught. When Robb first looked lovingly at Daenerys, Ned should have sent him away to be fostered, perhaps to Karhold or Barrowton. When Robb first held Daenerys's hand or touched her waist longer than a couple of seconds during dances at feasts, Ned should have broached the subject of the motherhouse to Daenerys, or have Ashara do it as it was more a womanly subject of discussion. Though he was of the old gods, Ned had learnt a bit about the Faith of Seven when he was fostered at the Eyrie. However, Ashara was brought up in the Faith of Seven and was more knowledgeable in it.

There was always the option of sending Daenerys to the silent sisters, but Ned was not that cruel. No, the motherhouse was better for Daenerys. It was the only place suited for her. _I was a fool_ , Ned berated himself. _Such a fool. All those years ago I should have delivered Daenerys to the septas, not taken her home_. He shook with silent fury at himself and at Robb. He raised Robb to be honourable as Lord Arryn had reared him. How was breaking a long-planned betrothal honourable in the slightest? And to a princess!

By the gods, Robert would be furious…if he ever found out.

"We didn't speak about this," said Ned quietly. "You never told me about what happened in the library. We will not speak of this again, Jojen."

Jojen nodded. "As you say Lord Stark." He dipped his head. "I intend to spend a few hours in the godswood today." Ned nodded. "You may go," he murmured. "I'll deal with Robb and Daenerys at once."

* * *

To bide himself a little more time for thought, Ned ordered all the boys – with the exception of Jojen – to continue sparring in the courtyard and had Daenerys recalled to the schoolroom for another sewing session. Not for the first time, Ned wished Lyarra was at Winterfell. She and Daenerys had always been quite close; Daenerys did not avoid sewing lessons when Lyarra was here.

"Ned," said Ashara, entering the solar. "You summoned me?"

Ned nodded. "I apologise for the abrupt order Ashara, but it's very urgent." He gestured for her to take a seat. "It is to do with Robb…and Daenerys."

Ashara looked grave. "By the Seven, what has Robb done?"

"Nothing of _that_ sort," Ned reassured her. He paused. "It can be seen as…much worse I suppose?"

Ashara arched an eyebrow. "What can be worse than Robb siring a bastard?"

Robb a kinslayer. Robb ignoring every lesson he was taught. Robb insulting all the lords of the north. _Robb marrying Daenerys Targaryen_. Ned shook the frantic thoughts from his mind. This wasn't the time to be consumed by frenzied notions that were no doubt wild fears about his _honourable_ son.

"Ned?" prompted Ashara.

"Robb proposed to Daenerys," Ned revealed. As he expected, Ashara's purple eyes widened in surprise. Apart from that, she did not look very shocked. Ashara sighed. "I had hoped he did not harbour that notion," she said sadly. "Honestly, it was inevitable. Maybe Robb pitied her for being a bastard at first. Then he might have fell in love with her. We should have sent her to the motherhouse."

Ned nodded in agreement. "It is not too late yet. We can send her away tonight or tomorrow morning. We can tell Robb that…"

"We cannot lie to Robb," said Ashara firmly. "You are a terrible liar, Ned, and whatever lie we feed Robb will never end well. He will lose trust in us and will be pining for Daenerys until his death. How will that fare for Princess Lyanna and in extension of that, Robert? He will be furious that Robb is obsessed with a bastard rather than loving his daughter. Do you want that, Ned?"

 _The best of friends…to the worst of enemies…_

"What is there to do?" said Ned, exasperated. "We cannot _force_ Daenerys into joining the septas! Even if I try, Robb will hate me for it!"

"At times like this, Robb must remember you are his father and lord," Ashara pointed out. "You are not as cold as Roose Bolton or as demanding as say, Tywin Lannister or other southron lords, but you will be seen by all the lords as weak or foolish for allowing Robb to marry Daenerys."

Ned lowered his voice. "Daenerys is no bastard."

"None of the lords are aware of that. Robert will have your head on a spike if he discovers Robb betrothed to her. Not even your friendship will save you. You know how much Robert hates Targaryens."

Ned sighed. "We need to tell the children the truth," he said at last. "Not all our children, but the elder ones. Most certainly Robb and Lyarra, perhaps Arya. Jon, I think it is time he learns the truth too."

Ashara nodded wearily. "It's time. He is old enough to understand why we had to keep the truth of his birth a secret for all this time. I hope Robb will not go and tell Theon about it though. Theon has been with us for years, but I'm afraid when he was younger, Waymar influenced him badly. I know you may wish Domeric to know, but I think it will be safer for us all if only Robb, Lyarra, Daenerys and Jon are told the truth. Arya is still a girl of twelve. Still too young to be trusted with it. Let her think Jon is her brother a little longer."

"For how long? Another year? Three? I always thought the day I would reveal to Jon the truth was when all the children are old enough to know."

Ashara leant forward and touched his hand. " _We_ both thought that. You do not carry that burden alone, remember?"

Ned smiled weakly "What if Robert _does_ somehow hear of this betrothal and demands for Arya and Gwenysse to be wedded to both his sons? Both the lords in the north _and_ south will be furious."

"Robert is the king. His orders must be obeyed. Arya will be most unhappy but there is nothing we can do. Though she is learning water dancing, she is as much a lady as Lyarra, Gwenysse and any other noblewoman and must learn that she'll still marry one day for the good of Winterfell."

"That is a little harsh, Ashara."

Ashara snorted. "Is it? Do you not think we are coddling her by allowing her to learn water dancing?"

"Did you hear the news from Bran?" said Ned, changing the subject. "He sent a letter, telling me that there will be a small melee at the Eyrie for squires only in a month's time and he wants to participate. Apparently it's part of the celebrations for the Lady Sansa Arryn's wedding to Ser Harrold Hardyng. Prince Ormund will be there along with his siblings, the queen and perhaps Robert."

"Odd to be thinking about celebrations now, is it not?"

"I am not one to see visions like Jojen, but I have a nasty feeling that whatever we do in the Robb and Daenerys situation, nothing will turn out well. I thought it would be better to discuss happier events before we deal with Robb."

"I suppose so," agreed Ashara. "I see no reason why Bran cannot participate in the melee. He has been learning from Ser Barristan the Bold and should put what he'd learnt to the test."

"He is only a boy of eleven!" Ned could not help but exclaim.

"Willas Tyrell participated in a joust at the age of fourteen."

"And was crippled by Prince Oberyn! Bran always dreamed of being a knight – I do not want his dreams crushed if he is crippled in a melee. Besides, isn't Bran technically Ser Barristan's page still? I thought one cannot be a squire till he is at least fourteen years of age! Bran is _eleven_. By all means, he can go and watch the melee with the royal family. He will be representing our House during the Eyrie celebrations." He sighed gloomily. "Bran will be very disappointed I'm afraid, but I rather him miss out one melee than a lifetime of melees."

Ashara nodded. "Bran will understand," she said soothingly. "I will ask Catelyn to comfort him about it too."

Ned tapped his fingers on his desk. His stomach rolled with worry as anxious thoughts about Robb and Daenerys returned.

"We cannot wait any longer," said Ashara, as if reading his thoughts. "I will go and tell the cooks to um, postpone supper for an hour or two. I suspect a number of us will wish to eat alone tonight, or not at all."

* * *

Ned's heart pounded twenty times faster as he heard the knock on the door. _It is time_. He looked at Ashara sitting on a chair beside him. She nodded with a brief, encouraging smile. "Enter," he called out, swallowing the anxiety that surfaced in his voice. He clenched his fists to prevent further nervous attacks.

The door opened and the children – though children no longer – slowly milled in: Robb first followed by Daenerys and Jon. If Lyarra was present, she would be here too. Ned's gut told him he should've summoned Arya, but his mind informed him that she was still too young to understand. To keep Arya occupied and away from the solar, Ned had asked Syrio to extend the lesson for an hour or two. Arya would no doubt be pleased at that.

"Father," Robb spoke. "You wished to see us?"

Ned nodded. "Please sit," he said, hoping his voice remained firm. "I hope this does not interfere with your studies."

Robb shook his head. "Not at all Father."

"What is said here today must remain a secret between us," said Ashara softly. Robb exchanged concerned looks with Daenerys as Jon's eyebrows shot straight up. "Is it understood?"

Robb, Daenerys and Jon nodded in unison, all with expressions ranging from a look of confusion to a solemn gaze. "There are a couple matters I'll be discussing with you," began Ned. His eyes fixed on Robb. "I heard from a reliable source that there is something…going on. Robb?"

Robb flushed red. "There is nothing going on Father."

"Nothing between you and Daenerys here then?" Daenerys and Robb glanced at each other. Neither spoke.

"I heard from that reliable source that the two of you are now affianced," Ned went on, crossing his arms. "I would be most delighted if it was wrong. Do either of you know why?"

Surprisingly it was Jon who answered. "Robb is – or was – engaged to Princess Lyanna Baratheon."

 _Jon knew_. Ned nodded. He looked at Robb sternly. "Robb, I raised you and your siblings to be honourable lords and ladies. To be honourable doesn't just mean to remain chaste till your wedding night or resisting temptations such as gambling, or even worse activities. When you were little children, how did you describe an honourable man, Robb?"

"A man who keeps his word," remembered Robb. He reddened even further. "I am sorry Father, but-"

"However, not all honourable men can maintain that virtue forever," Ned said, interrupting him. "Some hide secrets out of shame while others…the secrets they hide are for good reason. You learnt that during Robert's rebellion all the last of the Targaryens were slaughtered, yes?"

Daenerys nodded. "Ser Jaime Lannister killed King Aerys II Targaryen and two of Lord Lannister's men murdered Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon and their mother Princess Elia Martell. Lord Stannis Baratheon was sent to Dragonstone to fetch the remaining Targaryens there and found Queen Rhaella dead of childbed fever. He brought Prince Viserys and his unnamed sister back to King's Landing – both the children died in the black cells."

Ned nodded, the back of his neck prickling with apprehension. "That was what you were told," he admitted.

"What?" said Robb, puzzled. "But Father, was that not what happened?"

"That's what the whole world believes," said Ashara quietly. "Though half of it was the truth. Ser Jaime Lannister did kill the Mad King and Rhaenys, Aegon and Elia were murdered. Stannis did sail to Dragonstone and found Rhaella dead. Her unborn daughter and Viserys were shipped back to King's Landing, but they had never stepped foot into the black cells for a little more a quarter of an hour." She stopped and looked back at Ned.

"I negotiated with the king," continued Ned. "I argued and pleaded. I couldn't stand the thought of more murdered children. The king even gave me the honour of killing both Viserys and his sister." He shuddered. "Revenge, he called it. At the end, he agreed to allow the Targaryen children to live on the condition that I tell the court Ser Ilyn Payne accidently killed Viserys in the black cells, show him the proof of a body and ensure he never hears about the two Targaryens again.

"Do not ask how a body was provided, but a body was. Viserys was shipped to the Wall – I never saw him again, but I received a letter notifying me of his death, though he was named Viserys Dayne of High Hermitage." He glanced at Ashara. "I, well _we_ , thought it best to give him the name Dayne as Daynes often have similar features to Targaryens.

"As for the girl…the general idea was to send her to the septas when she is of age." Ned paused. "However, I wanted her to be well-educated and to have tasted a good, happy life before entering the motherhouse. The best way to keep her um, safe from King Robert was to give her a bastard name. I could have claimed she is my illegitimate child, but who would believe a girl with the traditional Targaryen looks to be my daughter?" He looked directly at Daenerys. "Ashara and I agreed it would be better to give her the name 'Sand' and pass her off as the bastard child of Ashara's brother the late Lord Dayne. Thankfully there were Dornishmen that resembled those of Andal and First Men blood rather than Rhoynar; it was even more fortunate that Ashara's family shared the Targaryen trait of violet eyes and some…some even had the Targaryen silver hair."

Daenerys's eyes widened and she paled. Robb stared at her in shock and Jon's solemn expression had ruptured into absolute pure astonishment. "Me…?" she'd breathed fearfully and with the faintest excitement. Ned nodded.

"It was for your own safety," murmured Ashara. "We wanted to tell you, but it was too dangerous and if the king catches one word of it…"

"I would be killed," Daenerys _Targaryen_ whispered. Her purple eyes glistened with tears as they shone with wonder. "I had a brother," she said softly. "Do you think he ever thought of me when he was alive at the Wall?" Ned affirmed with a second nod. Benjen had written that Viserys often mentioned her, naming her as either Rhaella or Alysanne. "He carried you in his arms when the two of you were in King's Landing," Ned told her. "For him to play the part of Viserys Dayne, we'd never told him about you. No letters, nothing."

"For both our sakes…" said Daenerys softly. "Mine…and Viserys's."

Ned swallowed painfully and nodded again. "Not only yours and Viserys's," he said, his hands shaking tensely. He took a deep breath and steadied them. There was no point stalling. "There is something else you must know," he said, calming quickly as Ashara moved closer and squeezed his hand comfortingly. "This time it is much more…personal to our family." His gaze swivelled to Jon. "With the aid of Jojen's father, we spread another lie to protect another with enough Targaryen blood for the king to view as a threat. This time I claimed the child as my own. My blood which is true."

With both Daenerys and Robb staring at Jon, Ned ploughed on. "Robert hated all Targaryens with a passion which transforms into fury even now. He despised them and called them dragonspawn. Above all, he hated Rhaegar Targaryen. How do you think he would have responded when he learnt Rhaegar had another son, one born from another woman, the lady Robert had loved and started a war for? What do you think the king would have done to that child?" Lyanna's last words echoed in his head again. _Promise me Ned_.

Another promise.

Another lie.

"What do you think King Robert would have done to the infant son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lady Lyanna Stark?" Ned said again. Robb gasped. Daenerys had paled again as she uttered, " _…Jon?_ "

* * *

 **I thought it was about time Jon and Daenerys finally learnt they are Targaryens. My original plan was for Daenerys never to find out about her Targaryen heritage, but well, plans often change.**


	70. Jon III

It felt like his whole world was spinning. Jon stared at the floor, attacked with emotions. First confusion struck him in the gut; shock next and finally anger. He was furious against his 'father', the king, the long-dead Rhaegar Targaryen…

"It must have come as a shock to you Jon," said Lord Stark gently.

A shock?

 _A shock?_

 _A SHOCK?_

"I am not your son," Jon said, finding his voice. "Not your bastard." Lord Stark flinched. "A bastard still," Jon continued, fury slowly bubbling up from his gut. "I am _Rhaegar Targaryen's_ bastard."

"You are my sister Lyanna's son," Lord Stark corrected slightly. "You aren't my son, but you are still of mine blood. Jon, can't you see it was for the best? You are angry, I know, but try and think! Claiming you as my illegitimate son was the best way to ensure your survival, just as declaring Daenerys Lord Dayne's illegitimate daughter. Deceit…I never approved of it, but what choice did we have?"

Jon's mind flittered with a swarm of thoughts. Everyone knew how the dragon prince abducted Lyanna Stark and Robert Baratheon started a war in an attempt to rescue her. At the end both Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark died, former in battle and the latter in Dorne. Which child didn't know that? Every northerner remembered; every southroner heard the song.

 _By the gods…I am the product of rape?_

Jon felt ill. "You said your sister died at Dorne," he heard himself say. "Did she die giving birth to me?"

Lord Stark nodded. "She made me promise to keep you safe. She knew Robert Baratheon's fury and his desire to kill all those with Targaryen blood. When she was dying, her last thoughts were about you."

A lump formed in Jon's throat. "Was my…my mother…raped?" Both Daenerys, his _paternal aunt_ , and Robb, his _cousin_ , turned and looked at Lord Stark. The king often said that Lyanna Stark was raped, but some believed she and Rhaegar were in love and eloped.

"That I do not know," answered Lord Stark, his eyes dark with sadness. "Mine father and brother would have believed it to be rape if they were alive. I too had initially believed it to be rape. Now…I do not know. Jon, do not hate yourself over this. If Lyanna was raped, she loved you when you were born. Her first and final thoughts were of you, Jon."

Slowly, the anger died down and mourning nudged Jon. "I have always viewed you as mine own," Lord Stark went on. "Both you and Daenerys. Theon, Domeric, Waymar too. I hope you know that."

"Will Westeros ever know?" choked Daenerys, wiping away tears.

Lord and Lady Stark exchanged looks. "If the time's ever ripe," said Lady Stark finally. "If we tell the world now, you and Jon will be killed on sight and all of us will be at King's Landing with our heads on spikes. If the time comes for dragons to return, all of Westeros will know the truth. If that day does not come, so be it. I for one do not want more bloodshed."

Lord Stark nodded. "No one is to know," he warned.

"What of Lyarra, Arya and Bran?" asked Robb. "Surely they are old enough to know about it too!"

"Lyarra certainly," agreed Lord Stark, "and she will be told when she's here. As for Arya…she might not take it too well." He looked directly at Jon again. "Jon and Arya have always been close and if I tell her he is not her brother…I do not think she will be very understanding of the matter. As for Bran, he is at King's Landing, in the very heart of intrigue and plotting. Do you think it wise for me to send him a raven about this?"

Robb blushed. "No Father."

"Why did you decide to tell us this now?" said Jon flatly. "You could have kept it a secret till your dying day, _Uncle_."

Lord Stark gestured to Robb and Daenerys. "The two of you forced my hand," he said wearily, shaking his head. "I had hoped to tell you about it later, perhaps when the Targaryen name is no longer so hated upon, but after what I was told, it could not wait. _Now_ do you understand why I hope it was a lie? Why a betrothal cannot happen? Daenerys, if you were a normal bastard, it'd be seen as a slight – as you are in truth the last Targaryen princess…"

Jon stared at the ground with sudden interest. _What a mess…_

"What is it?" Jon looked up. Lord Stark was frowning at Daenerys who swayed from side to side, her face as pale as Ghost's white fur. Robb too had whitened. "I will call for Maester Luwin," said Lord Stark, heading to the door. "Daenerys, you must go to your chambers and lie down. You are unwell. I will ask Maester Luwin to give you a um, calming potion of sorts." He glanced at Jon. "What of you, Jon? I will have the maester prescribe you something too."

"No, there is no need," said Jon hastily. "I feel fine. Only…shocked."

"Wait Father!" said Robb suddenly. "There is something we must tell you." He looked at Jon. Jon nodded. Better to confess now than at the Great Sept of Baelor in King's Landing in front of thousands of lords and ladies.

"What is it?" said Lady Stark, concerned.

"We…we did not know," stammered Daenerys. "A-about the Targaryen blood and all that. If w-we did, we would not have done it."

"Done what?" said Lord and Lady Stark together. Jon could see fear and worry dancing in their eyes.

"We are no longer betrothed," explained Robb. "We _were_ , but then…then…" He faltered for a moment. "We could not wait. We knew there will be protests for us to break it quickly and then we will be separated – me to King's Landing and well, Dany to anyone who is willing to marry a bastard girl. We went to the godswood and…and…" He choked. "We are already married."

* * *

The sun was half-hidden behind the northern mountains when Robb revealed the truth. All Jon could do was listen with a heavy heart. What they had done…no doubt it would be seen as treason and punishable by death. Lord Stark's long and close friendship with the king would not even save them now.

"…and I know my duty's to marry for the good of Winterfell," Robb was saying miserably, "and Princess Lyanna is lovely and kind, but I could not help it. I fell in love. If I did wed the princess and she comes to live here, how can I learn to love her when Dany is here too? I was a coward for not informing you, but I thought if I told you, all you would do is send Dany away. I could not have that, Father."

"We were betrothed and married before I was sent to a sewing session," Dany said, her hands shaking with fear, "and Robb to the courtyard. Better a swift and quick marriage than a long and secret betrothal. Secret betrothals never end well for lovers. I swear Lord Stark, if I knew I was a…a Targaryen, I would never have endangered your family by wedding Robb. I love him as much as he loves me, my lord. Honest! I did not marry him to be the next Lady of Winterfell."

Lady Stark nodded. "I believe you," she said gently. She still looked trouble. "I know you love Robb, but do you know what mess the two of you have caused? If it was just the betrothal…" She shook her head. "Was this marriage witnessed by anyone?" She sounded hopeful.

Lord Stark frowned. "Ashara? Robb and Daenerys are now married in the eyes of the gods. There is nothing we can do. We have no annulments here."

"I witnessed it," spoke Jon. "Robb and Dany sought me out and asked me to be the witness to their quick wedding. I also asked them…" His voice trailed off. He'd married them as well as witnessing the wedding.

"Will the king have me killed?" inquired Daenerys nervously.

"Robert does not have the best of memories," said Lord Stark heavily. "I hope by now he'd forgotten about the agreement we had made. If he had forgotten, it'd be better for all of us. No executions that is. Robert will hate me and Houses Stark and Baratheon will lose their longstanding alliance." He glanced sadly at Robb. "It is not just the king who will be furious. All the northern lords will be too. Many of them have unmarried daughters around your age and for you to have chosen in their eyes a bastard over their own…be prepared to be challenged or the icy, cold reception you will receive."

"You will not force us apart?" said Robb, his eyes widening.

"Unless Daenerys is willing to join a motherhouse…? Robb, what you did was a foolish move. A reckless one too. What if you never told me and the king instructs us to go south for your wedding to Princess Lyanna? You would've disgraced not only yourself, but our House. I could force you to discard Daenerys and marry the princess as planned, but I sense it will not end well. Besides, you are already now a husband in the eyes of the old gods."

"What will you tell the king?"

Lord Stark was silent.

"We can say Robb did the honourable act," spoke Jon tentatively. "Perhaps one night he had a little too much to drink and accidently slept with Daenerys. On the next morning he discovered it and honourably married her to avoid sullying her reputation. Mayhap you should write to the king immediately, informing him of it. Better to tell him now than later. From what you said about the king, um Uncle, it will not be long before he forgives you. He himself has slept with many women – I think he can understand Robb's actions."

Robb gave him a grateful smile. Jon grinned back. Though thinking of him as a cousin was still strange, he could adjust to it given time. Jon looked back at Lord and Lady Stark, the latter nodding slowly. Lord Stark still seemed uncertain. "It is the best reason we have," Jon pointed out.

"Jon is right," said Lady Stark, nodding more vigorously now. "Ned?"

"I'm sorry Father," said Robb in a small voice. "It is my fault. I should have told you about my feelings towards Dany. You do not have to lie for me. I will journey to King's Landing and apologise to the king myself."

"No!" exclaimed Lady Stark. "All the king will do is wed you to the princess! He would not think a secret wedding in the godswood is binding! No, better you stay here. Daenerys too."

"It _is_ my fault," Robb argued more strongly. "If the king wishes to imprison me in the black cells for a day or two, so be it!"

Lord Stark stared at him expressionlessly. "What if the king has you executed, Robb?" he said quietly. "I rather another lie than your head on a spike."

* * *

Supper was more or less a silent affair. For one, only Jon went to the Great Hall for dinner. Well, Arya, Arthur and little Rickon were already there, but Lord and Lady Stark, Robb and Daenerys were not. Even Uncle Benjen wasn't there. Theon too, had probably decided to sup in the tavern today followed by a night with his favourite prostitutes. As for the two Reeds…Jon had no idea where they could be, though the godswood was the probable place.

"Where is everyone?" demanded Arya, looking around.

Jon shrugged. "In their chambers I suppose."

"Why? Father and Mother never miss supper. I heard Uncle Benjen is here. I'd hoped he would be here for supper so I can tell him about catching cats and how useful water dancing techniques are."

"Maybe he will dine with us tomorrow." Jon poked his slice of potato, beef and onion pie with his fork. He had no appetite. The depressing thought of being half-Targaryen had returned and hovered in his mind like a gloomy grey cloud. He no longer bore anger towards Lord Stark for keeping his true parentage a secret; he was depressed because he never met his mother and his _uncle_ did not like to talk much about her. It was easier to accept Robb as a cousin – cousins could see each other as brothers could they not? – but Lord Stark as his uncle? It still made Jon's head swim with confusion.

"Do you think Gage will cook the frogs I caught?"

"Frogs for supper?" squealed Arthur, making a face. "Disgusting!"

Three year old Rickon pulled a face too. "Disgusting frogs," he agreed, giggling as he played with his bowl of stew.

"Stop playing with your food Rickon," said Jon flatly. Rickon giggled again and promptly ignored him. Arya raised an eyebrow. "I'm certain you played with _your_ food when you were three," she said, loading peas onto her spoon. Oh no. Before she could propel the spoonful of peas at him, Jon stood up, surprising her. "I will retire early," he announced.

"Not you too!" groaned Arya. "What am I supposed to do with these two?" She gestured at Arthur and a laughing Rickon. "Sing them to sleep?"

 _Well, you have a nice singing voice_. "Keep them busy I guess," Jon muttered. He hurried out of the Great Hall before Arya could say anything else. The moment he stepped foot outside, guilt struck him. Apart from Robb, he loved Arya best. He'd never been so…so discourteous to her before. _I should apologise_ , Jon thought. _She did nothing to provoke me. Arya didn't deserve my rudeness_. He would apologise to Arya tomorrow morning.

On a whim, Jon walked slowly to the First Keep, an unused drum tower squat and round in shape. The First Keep was the oldest surviving part of the castle, he remembered from his lessons with Maester Luwin. Atop the First Keep perched a few stone gargoyles, coated with sprinkles of dirt and dust. Around the keep was a lichyard where the Kings of Winter would lay their loyal servants. Jon could not help but wonder where he would be buried. Upon death, every Stark would be in a tomb in the Stark crypts – would a bastard too?

 _I am not Lord Stark's bastard_ , Jon reminded himself the third time that day. _I'm Lady Lyanna's_. It was easier to believe that Lady Lyanna was raped by the dragon prince. The wind gently nipped Jon on the cheek as he stood near the First Keep, isolated from the other inhabitants of Winterfell. _The crypts_ , a voice whispered in his head. _Go to the crypts. Visit your mother_. As if in a trance, Jon obeyed, heading to the crypts despite the cold, icy breeze. He stopped at the door of the crypts; he picked up the lantern and pushed open the ironwood door.

There'd always been a lantern sitting on a spot near the door, the yellow light inside it flickering brightly. _We can visit the crypts at anytime, whether the night, dawn, evening or day_. Jon had went inside once in the daytime with Robb, Lyarra, Dany, Lord Stark's wards and the maester to learn more about the history of the old rulers of Winterfell. That was during the summer and the crypt was still very dark that it required a torch or lantern to see the statues.

Jon carefully descended the narrow and winding stone steps. The last thing he wanted was to die of a broken neck in the crypts of Winterfell. He made his way to the statue of Lord Rickard Stark, his grandfather. Lord Rickard sat with quiet dignity, stone fingers holding tight to the sword across his lap. On his left was the small sepulchre of his heir, Brandon. On his right was Lady Lyanna.

 _My mother_.

It felt strange, thinking those words while staring at a stone statue. Was she a beautiful woman? She must have been. What did she look like? Apparently Lady Lyanna looked quite like Arya. Jon tried to imagine an older Arya and laughed to himself softly. To him, Arya would always be the same wild little girl running all over the castle, swinging Needle.

"Jon, I thought I would find you here."

Jon turned. "Uncle Benjen?"

His uncle's face emerged from the darkness. "I thought I would find you here," he said again, patting Jon on the shoulder. "Ned told you the truth didn't he?"

"How do you know?"

"He told me too. When I first saw you as a babe, I thought you were Brandon's son. Brandon was more the type to go around bedding women than Ned was, but war changes people."

Jon snorted. "Either way I am still a bastard," he said bitterly.

"Lord Stark loves you," Uncle Benjen said earnestly, "as does Lady Stark. You should embrace their love, not push it away. Not all bastards are fortunate to be raised in a happy environment. Does knowing the bloody truth change the bond you have with Robb? It shouldn't. Everything that was done was to protect you. I hope you understand that."

"I do, Uncle." Jon paused. "Uncle Benjen…can you tell me something about my mother? Anything at all?"

Uncle Benjen placed a single blue winter rose onto Lady Lyanna's lap. "Lyanna always loved the scent of blue winter roses," he said reminiscently. "She was like Arya in so many ways. Both have wolf blood in their veins and learnt to fight." He smiled a little. "My father would not give Lyanna water dancing lessons though. I would spar with her every day…until her abduction. Even now a man grown and a member of the Night's Watch, I still remember and mourn Lyanna."

"What did she look like?"

"Beautiful in a wild way." Uncle Benjen's eyes glazed with sadness. "She didn't have southron beauty, but she was the rose of the North and looked every inch a Stark. She had the Stark grey eyes and brown hair. She hated wearing gowns but wore them to please our father. When she was obliged to play the part of a noble lady, she did so quite well." He chuckled. "You should have seen Donnor Cerwyn. He would follow her around like a lovesick pup when he visited Winterfell. Some of Brandon's friends would too, hoping to marry her." He sighed gloomily. "Most of them were executed when they accompanied Brandon to King's Landing."

"I heard she was a fine rider."

"The best of riders, Jon. The best. Did you know she attacked three squires in the tourney at Harrenhal?"

"Really?" Jon could not help but look surprised.

Uncle Benjen smiled. "Howland Reed was being bullied by three squires near the beginning of the tourney. Lyanna had roared 'that is my father's man you are kicking' and attacked them with a tourney sword. She then took Howland back to the tent, cleaned his wounds and introduced him to us."

"Do you think she loved Rhaegar?"

"The king believes he abducted her. I…do not know. Lyanna was certainly able to ride away from Rhaegar if she felt threatened and she wouldn't be afraid at all of hurting him if he was blocking her way. I do not know how Lyanna acted when she was in love though. She knew she would be married off eventually and would have no choice in the matter. Imagining her head-over-heels in love…something I still cannot imagine today." Uncle Benjen looked at Jon. "There are so many tales I can tell you about Lyanna Jon, but she is dead. She has been dead for _years_. I do not see how telling you about Lyanna will help you…adjust."

"I never thought my mother would be Lyanna Stark," Jon mumbled. "I thought my mother was special, very different to other women. I never expected that she was Lyanna Stark and my father Rhaegar Targaryen."

"You do not have to stay here if this is too much," comforted Uncle Benjen. "It is quite a lot to take in. I still see Lyanna's spirit everywhere I go at Winterfell. Do not worry, Jon. You once wanted to join the Night's Watch did you not? You were younger back then. Now you are older and a knight too! If you ever want to leave Winterfell, you will always be welcome at the Wall."

Jon was silent. He had not considered joining the Night's Watch in a while. As a knight he had options both in the north and south. He could remain at Winterfell and be future master-at-arms perhaps. He could go south and participate in a few small tourneys and tournaments, maybe earn enough to settle down, marry and have children. _Children who'll bear the name Snow_. No, that dream was well over. Besides, with the woman he loved married to another. Jon almost shuddered. In a way, he was relieved. If he did marry his _aunt_ Daenerys…

 _Incest is in your blood,_ a voice reminded him. _Targaryens often married sister and brother or even uncle and niece…or nephew and aunt? What if it was fate for you to wed Daenerys, only for Robb to steal her away from you like a wilding?_

"Thank you Uncle," Jon said, breaking the silence. "I will think about it. There's no rush. The Wall will still be there waiting if I choose to join as an old man." His uncle smiled a little – it looked rather strained.

* * *

 **I apologise for not uploading earlier. As for Jon being Rhaegar's bastard or trueborn son, I'm leaving it either way for now. It makes sense with knights of the Kingsguard guarding Lyanna at the Tower of Joy and all that, but I'm still considering. If any of you know a way I can write about the Others and wildlings without making it into a huge arc, please let me know! I never really enjoyed reading or watching scenes about the Others and the Wall, but I feel it is somewhat a part of this story. I apologise in advance if I do not upload soon as for the last few weeks, I've been experimenting with writing in different POVs as well as reorganising the list of POVs and a lot of replanning and chapter shuffling.**


	71. Benjen III

Leaving Jon to his own thoughts, Benjen quietly left the crypts of Winterfell. It was late, but the desire to rest did not come to him. Though he was pleased to be at Winterfell, at the same time he wanted to run away again. Winterfell was once his home; now it haunted him.

Where was his home now? Castle Black?

Shaking the dismal thoughts from his mind, Benjen wandered back inside the Great Hall – now virtually empty with the exception of his sworn brothers – for a late supper. After speaking, more like interrogating, the wildling Ygritte, he'd lost his appetite. The tales she taunted him with…Benjen almost shuddered a second time. Obviously the stories were false, but they were still disturbing. How could a woman… _any_ woman, commit such atrocities and boast of it? Unless Ygritte was a liar and told the stories out of…bluster or fear?

"Stark!" one of sworn brothers, Ser Mallador Locke, called out. He gestured for him to sit down beside him and opposite Grenn, a young man of nineteen who'd been with the Night's Watch for about three years. Grenn was quite tall and was thick of neck with small, squinty, brown eyes, a bushel of brown hair and was in the process of growing a beard.

"Locke," Benjen acknowledged. "Grenn."

"Stark," grunted Grenn, pushing a plate of meat and bread towards him. "What have you been up to? Reliving old memories?"

"Interrogating a wildling actually," answered Benjen, accepting the food.

"A wildling? What would a wildling be doing here?"

Benjen stared at him. By the old gods did Grenn not learn anything?

"Dining with Lord Stark," said Mallador sarcastically.

"Oh really? Odd company do you not think?"

"It was one of the wildlings we were hunting down," explained Benjen. "Lords Karstark and Umber caught her on their lands and brought her hear, probably to face Lord Stark's judgement. That was why we are here after all." Apart from the feeble attempt in recruiting. Usually the wandering crows would be recruiting, as it was their duty, but Lord Commander Mallister ordered all rangers to recruit as well as numbers were dwindling dangerously low. The number of black brothers were the lowest in centuries, according to Lord Commander Mallister. Of yet, the three of them – Benjen, Mallador Locke and Grenn – had no success in recruiting any novices. Then again, Yoren mentioned the return journey to Castle Black had more chance of gathering recruits.

"Did you discover anything?" questioned Ser Mallador.

"Not much," Benjen admitted. "All she did was taunt me. Hopefully a night in a Winterfell cell would loosen her tongue. Wildlings do not cope well in small, tight and confined spaces."

"Are you sure that is wise, Benjen? I know you despise the art of torture as all good men do, but at times-"

"I'm not torturing anyone," Benjen cut in. "Even though more than half of our brothers are criminals and thieves who have probably done more vicious crimes than torturing a man, the Night's Watch is still a prestigious order and tainting it with torture is the last thing I want to do."

"Prestigious honour," Mallador scoffed. "It was once. Only dreamers and fools still think it is prestigious."

"Have you discovered the wildling's name at least?" inquired Grenn.

Benjen prodded his slice of meat with his knife. "Ygritte." The other two both flinched. "You said you'd kill her if you ever see her again," said Grenn, returning to his bowl of stew. "Will you? Why did you not kill her earlier?"

Benjen darkened. The day he spared Ygritte flashed in his mind. So many good and experienced men died, fighting against wildlings and the impossible. "She's a stubborn one," he said at last. "An experienced warrior too who must know many wildling secrets that will be valuable to us. Oh I will kill her, but soon. She will be tired of taunting eventually, and will discover that escaping from Winterfell's cell is not an easy feat. She will soon start blabbing."

Mallador looked doubtful. "And if she does not? The plan was to take her from here to Castle Black."

"More chance for her to escape though," Benjen pointed out.

"Will your brother be willing to lend us some men to help guard her?"

"I am certain Lord Stark will be willing to help us, but even trained soldiers do not know the thoughts of a clever wildling woman. She could still have a dozen or so tricks up her sleeve that she will use on us once we open that cell door. I wish to return to Castle Black as much as you do, Ser Mallador, but I will not have this particular wildling escaping and running back to her people. Winterfell is a much more secure place for Ygritte than Castle Black."

"What you say is true, Stark, but we cannot stay here forever. We are brothers of the Night's Watch. Our place is at the Wall, not at Winterfell."

"I have no intention of deserting Ser Mallador…"

"I know you have no intention of deserting, Stark. You chose to take the black of your own free will. It is just…some of our sworn brothers may feel resentful at the fact that we are here in this warm castle while they…are not in a comfortable position. Some of them have never had the honour of being invited into the Great Hall of great lords' keeps and others might not be as respectful towards you due to your ah, close relationship to Lord Stark."

"You think there will be a mutiny at Castle Black."

Grenn stopped eating and stared at Benjen incredulously. "There haven't been a mutiny at Castle Black…ever."

"There might be one," said Mallador darkly. "With many members criminals…I hope my thoughts on a mutiny are those of a worried man and naught more."

Benjen sighed. "What do we do then, and do we tell Lord Stark about what we had discovered during the great ranging?"

"He should already know should he not?"

"I don't think he received late Lord Commander Mormont's raven." If Ned had, he would've most likely have already sent a troop of northern soldiers to assist at the Wall. There were a few reasons why Ned had not received the raven, and one of them shone out like a ray of sunshine in a cluster of grey clouds. Benjen stood up again. "I need to speak to Ygritte again," he announced.

"You said you wanted to leave her in isolation for a couple of days," reminded Grenn. "You said she is in a gloating mood."

"What are you thinking of, Stark?"

"Tactics of war," murmured Benjen.

"War," repeated Green doubtfully. "Ser Mallador mentioned mutiny, not war. I think you need a few hours of rest, Stark. Clear your head."

"The wildlings are declaring war," said Benjen as he began to pace. "Well, they have already declared war years ago. We think the wildlings have been raiding to survive and also irritate us, yes?" Ser Mallador Locke tilted his head inquisitively as Grenn nodded. "What if the raids are also done for the wildlings to discover all our weaknesses in manpower and buildings? Already they outnumber us around ten to one – a few deaths would not matter as much as a few of ours dead." _By the old gods we shouldn't have went on the great ranging_. _The wildlings decimated all the experienced fighters and we will be easy pickings at the Wall when the wildings attack us._ "We've kept them out for decades," Benjen continued. "Centuries. With the long winter approaching, what better time for the wildlings to attack?"

"They might not survive the winter too," Grenn pointed out.

"Wildlings know how to survive in the cold better than most of us though," Ser Mallador commented. "It would be a disaster if the wildlings assault Castle Black and are victorious. If we're not killed, we would die in the cold without supplies. I think we rangers have a higher chance of survival than the builders and stewards if we _are_ forced beyond the Wall."

"Without strong, experienced soldiers, the Wall will fall to the wildlings," said Benjen darkly. "Once the Wall falls to them, they will invade the North. They can be killed, but the sheer number of them…"

"If only we captured Mance Rayder's wife," said Grenn wistfully.

Benjen arched an eyebrow. "Wildlings won't respond to a peaceful trade. Even if they do, there are no sworn brothers we can ask to be returned. All of them are _dead_." He said the last words more bitterly than he had intended. When he was in Grenn's position as an ordinary ranger, Benjen saw wildings as troublesome men and women; now they were enemies.

"You are First Ranger, Stark," said Ser Mallador calmly. "What will you have us do? Continue recruiting and interrogating wildlings as we were ordered or prepare for a war?"

* * *

When the sun rose the next morning, Benjen headed to Ned's solar. He rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn. He should have had a good sleep – he did not.

"Benjen," said Ned, opening the door, surprise written over his face. "I was not aware you wish to depart so soon. I will call Maester-" Benjen shook his head. "It is something I wish to speak to you about," he said quietly. He went into the solar and waited for Ned to sit down first. As Benjen sat down opposite him, he caught sight of dark shadows under Ned's eyes. _He had not slept well either_. "You haven't slept all night either," Benjen said softly. "Jon, isn't it? You couldn't sleep because of Jon? You had to tell him the truth eventually."

"Robb and Daenerys," said Ned tiredly. He gestured to the small fireplace, it's mouth littered with the crumbs of burnt parchments. "All night I tried to come up with a letter to send to Robert. Ashara had suggested we pretend Robb and Dany never married as they hadn't in the eyes of the Seven, but I cannot live with such a religious dilemma on my conscience. All I can do is hope Robert is merciful." He stared at the empty goblet in front of him. "I should've shouted at Robb, ordered him to denounce Daenerys. I should've sent Robb south yesterday to wed Lyanna Baratheon at once. Instead, I have decided to acknowledge the match. If I decided not to, Robb would never love Princess Lyanna in their marriage."

"He could learn to. You learnt to love Ashara."

"Our father married a Stark, I married a Dayne and now Robb...my bannermen would've accepted Princess Lyanna as their future Lady of Winterfell, but Dany? I fear the future would not be kind to her or their children. In the eyes of the north, Daenerys is a Dornish bastard; Robb is half-Dayne."

"Lyarra will wed Domeric Bolton. A fine northern match. You can always wed your other children to northern lords for the peace you desire."

Ned did not look any happier. "I apologise for burdening you with my problem, Benjen," he said, attempting a smile. "What is it you wish to speak to me about? Is it more men you want?"

"Sort of," said Benjen, biting his lip.

"I have sent ravens to all the lords, instructing them to send petty criminals to the Wall. I hope that will be a good sum of men for a while. I would've asked King Robert to do the same to the southron lords, but…" He made a face. "I am certain you will have more men in a few days."

"The wildings are waging war," Benjen stated. "I thought they were plain raids like they usually did, but it is a war. What we saw in the great ranging…even with more criminals in our ranks, we are severely outnumbered."

Ned frowned. "Why did the Lord Commander not notify me of this?"

"I believe he did, or tried to, but the wildlings shot down our ravens. Well, that is what I believe. The late Lord Commander Mormont sent plenty of letters to the king, you and other great lords Ned, but he hardly received a reply. I thought the king neglected our letters as he is busy ruling, but I found it strange when the Old Bear asked me if um, marrying a southroner caused you to neglect our letters too. I told him you might not have received the letters." Benjen blushed a little. "It had been wrong of Lord Commander Mormont to think you did not answer his letters because of Ashara."

"I received some of his letters," said Ned, frowning deeply. "I replied too. Most of the Old Bear's letters were requesting more men. I sent as many as I could, but not everyone is eager to join the Night's Watch these days."

Benjen nodded. "We need help. Experienced, skilled soldiers."

"Is Lord Commander Mallister aware of this?"

"Not exactly, but if we return with trained soldiers, he will surely appreciate it, and with the promise of more of course. Ser Mallador, Grenn and I decided that it would be best for me to travel to King's Landing and ask the king for troops; both of them will return to Castle Black, hopefully with recruits and they will tell Lord Commander Mallister what has happened."

Ned nodded slowly. "What of the wildling in my dungeons? You said if you see her again, you would kill her. Did you kill her?"

"Not yet," Benjen muttered. "All she did was taunt me, but I believe she will be yielding answers after a day or two in isolation."

"Who will interrogate her when you are journeying south and your two sworn brothers travelling back to Castle Black?"

Benjen paused. He had not thought much about Ygritte. "Perhaps Ser Mallador and Grenn will escort her to Castle Black with some men?" he suggested.

"Well, the Night's Watch's feud with the wildlings is no longer a private issue I think," said Ned thoughtfully. "This is a Northern matter now, Benjen. As Warden of the North, it is my responsibility to ensure the wildlings are subdued if there is a battle on Northern ground. If you and your sworn brothers agree, I'll hand the wildling over to Lord Umber. I'm certain he will have uh, _methods_ to extract a few answers from the wildling. If Lord Commander Mallister wishes, he can send one of his black brothers to Last Hearth to supervise or deal with the wildling. If you prefer quicker ways to retrieve answers-"

"Not Lord Bolton please," interrupted Benjen hastily. "If we give Ygritte to him, I doubt we'll receive her in a whole piece if we ever need to trade her. Father had once told me that when it comes to war, it's better to have any hostage than none at all." Ned nodded in agreement. "Ensure Lord Umber does not kill the wildling," Benjen implored. "Umbers have no love for wildlings either."

"Of course. I'll have some of my men keep an eye on the wildling. In a situation like this, I would have preferred to gather all the lords here to tell them about the wildling war. However, as there will not be enough time for that, I'll send ravens to them at once. The mountains clans and Umbers should be the first to send you troops. Ser Mallador and Grenn will take a host of my own men to the Wall. Some of my men are already heading to Bear Island to help defend it from wildlings."

Benjen nodded. "Thank you Ned."

"It is my duty to aid the members of the Night's Watch," said Ned simply.

"I really wish I can help you more Ned, but as a black brother…" Benjen shook his head. His duties were at Castle Black, not Winterfell.

"You have done plenty," said Ned gently. "First Ranger and a high ranking man in the Night's Watch."

"Will Lord Commander Mallister think me a traitor and deserter?"

"No. You are far from a deserter. Maybe when you convince the king, all those southron soldiers are what the Night's Watch needs to banish the wildlings once and for all." Ned looked thoughtful again. "I might journey to Castle Black myself – once this Robb and Daenerys mess is over of course. Our ancestors have always kept a firm interest in the Wall. Our grandfather Lord Edwyle had rode to Castle Black a numerous amount of times to help kill wildlings. Our father Lord Rickard sent a small number of men to the Wall to help twice a year too. It is my turn now. Have you thought of a way to end the war?"

"My sworn brothers are not aware the war had already started."

"Any plans at all, Benjen?"

"I must discuss plans with the other senior commanders I suppose..."

Ned nodded. "Very well. We'll have plenty of time to discuss and develop your initial plans when we travel south."

Astonishment spread on Benjen's face. "You…you will be travelling south too? I thought you said you have no desire to return south in a hurry."

Ned motioned to the fireplace a second time. "I have no choice," he said with a weary sigh. "I cannot tell Robert what happened through a raven. I thought about it all night and even though it is not the best of ideas, going to King's Landing and informing the king myself seems to be the wisest right now. You can convince the king to send ravens to the southron lords to gather soldiers before I tell him what occurred. Your matter is more important after all."

"Will the king forgive you?"

"If I am fortunate, Benjen. Robert loves and hates with equal passion. It is one matter for Robb to break a betrothal for love, but breaking his own with Robert's daughter…" Ned groaned quietly. "Disaster."

"What about Ashara? Will she come with us?"

"Yes. I intend to tell her that today. I cannot leave her here where the northern lords will murder her with their harsh words. They will blame Ashara for Robb's hasty marriage. She is Dornish, Daenerys is Dornish in their eyes. They also think Daenerys is Ashara's bastard niece. They will accuse Ashara of raising Robb into a Dornishman rather than a Northman. _The North remembers_. The northern lords will remember her as a manipulative and scheming southroner, a seductress and enchantress from Dorne. If matters grow worse, the lords might even want me to put Ashara aside, bastardise our children and remarry a northern lady like many of our ancestors have done."

"When will the northern lords learn of Robb's marriage?"

Ned remained silent for a moment. "Soon enough," he said finally. "Ashara had suggested Robb summon the northern lords to Winterfell when he is acting lord and notify them himself. A good plan, do you not think? Robb must learn to deal with problems in the North one day. It might be brokering fragile peace between warring lords or earning the lords trust. Robb will be the Lord of Winterfell upon my death and he must face the truth that peace will not remain in the North. One day, arguments may break out and be the key to war."

"What if Robb needs your help?"

"He has Maester Luwin who will offer sound advice."

"What if Robb cannot manage to control the lords?"

Ned darkened. "I rather not think that. He was given a fine education and he'd sat and watched me deal with the lords in the past. When Robb was a boy, he had played games based on alliance-making and peace. Hopefully he can use that as a tool when he is the acting lord. The northern lords will not be so easily won over than their southron counterparts. If Robb doesn't succeed in convincing the lords to remain on peaceful terms with us…"

"He's a dutiful son to you," said Benjen helpfully. "Besides, Robb will have time to plan what to say. It will take the lords at least a few days to travel to Winterfell after Robb summons them by raven. Maester Luwin can help him prepare and he can send you ravens if he is desperate for advice."

"I wish you chose to stay here Benjen. I could do with you around. If you chose not to join the Night's Watch, I would have given you your own holdfast." Benjen shook his head. "I always wanted to join the Night's Watch," Benjen said firmly. "I would not have enjoyed ruling from a small keep. Remember what I said to you a day or two before I left with Yoren to Castle Black? There must always be a Stark manning the Wall. A Stark at Winterfell, and a Stark at Castle Black."

* * *

 **I've decided that in this story, I will not write about the Others as some of you have suggested. I hope you don't mind that. I also like the point Todd made about House Stark slowly becoming a Dornish house in the eyes of the northern lords.**


	72. Davos IV

When Davos first laid eyes on the squadron of Freys that appeared at Storm's End's doorstep, he thought they all looked similar. Beady-eyed, weak-chinned, a little weaselly like their lord, the ancient Lord Walder Frey who was still alive. It was not long before Davos learnt that some Freys were worse than others.

"Why could not Lord Frey have sent just _one_ of his sons instead?" his youngest son Steffon had asked curiously.

"Lord Frey is a tricky, ambitious man," Davos had replied before steering him and young Stannis towards their rooms. "Why have one betrothal when you can have a dozen? Lord Frey is rich, but not as wealthy as Lord Lannister. He is also a powerful lord, but not as powerful as um, others. However, Lord Frey has plenty of sons and daughters. Some lords may desire many children and no lady is as ah, fertile, as a Frey girl."

"Who would _want_ to marry one of Lord Frey's sons?"

"Other river lords may want to ally with House Frey. Maybe some lords of the Westerlands and even the Reach. Gaining connections is as useful as wealth for a minor lord. Have you attended a feast before, Steffon?"

Steffon shook his head. "There were never feasts at the Rainwood."

"You will be going to the feast tonight. You too Stannis," Davos added to young Stannis who was looking at the tapestries of hunts and stags with interest. "All of us will be attending."

"Even Dale?"

"Even Dale," affirmed Davos confidently. A raven had been sent and Dale was no doubt on his way to Storm's End as they speak. Uncertainty slithered into his mind as he listened to his two younger sons chatter. He was pleased Dale was the acting Lord of the Rainwood. It would do him good to experience ruling over the lands that would one day be his. However, Davos felt rather sneaky in sending a raven requesting his presence at Storm's End for the purpose of choosing a Frey bride. Davos hated politics and the thought of arranging beneficial marriages for his sons was…deplorable. Other Storm lords would think him mad, but at times, Davos still felt more a commoner than a noble lord of the Stormlands.

 _Making political matches is what lords do_ , Davos reminded himself. _The Freys might not be the most pleasant, but they're still noble. The knighthood brought you lands and a future for your sons; the lordship of the Rainwood enhanced the future; and marriages to the daughters of lords would brighten that further_. It would be a great comfort indeed for Dale to select his own Frey wife.

"Will we all get Frey wives?" Steffon giggled. Young Stannis snorted. "If you all want to wed Freys, I will not stop you," chuckled Davos. He stopped immediately as he caught sight of Lady Baratheon walking towards them, her cheeks pinched and her red lips tightening into a thin line. "Milady," said Davos courteously with a nod. Young Stannis and Steffon followed suit and echoed, "My lady," nodding at her respectfully. As Davos expected, Lady Baratheon looked at them with quite a haughty glare before walking away without a word.

 _I will always be a smuggler in her eyes and my sons the sons of a smuggler._

"Mother does not wear the bracelet you gifted her with," said young Stannis as they approached their rooms.

"Oh?" said Davos, puzzled. Last year he'd sent Marya a silver bracelet studded with small pearls as a name day gift. It was uncharacteristic of him to give Marya jewellery as he usually never did.

"She keeps it in a box," explained Steffon. "She says it's too good to wear and it will always be a reminder of the good days for her." Davos smiled. "I will see both of you later," he said, ruffling Steffon's mop of brown hair. "There is still a couple of hours before the feast and I have work to finish."

* * *

As Lord Stannis never summoned him to his solar, Davos spent the few hours strolling around Storm's End with his elder sons. It wasn't long before Davos and his family were escorted into the Great Hall and seated at one of the trestle tables near the high table. It wasn't the closest of tables to the dais, but it was still close enough to illustrate their standing in Lord Stannis's favour.

At the high table sat an expressionless Lord Stannis in the centre and a clearly unhappy Lady Baratheon on his left. Davos noted that she was decked from head to toe in jewels again, mostly emeralds and rubies. _Still in scarlet and gold_ , Davos thought with faint amusement. _After sixteen years, Lady Baratheon still thinks she is a Lannister of Casterly Rock_. How unusual for a married woman. He pushed the Lady of Storm's End from his mind and smiled at Marya beside him. She was in a lovely gown of grey – a dress she sewed herself – and her brown hair, now a little grey, was tied into a long braid. "You are a beautiful sight," said Davos truthfully, kissing her on the cheek. _Much more beautiful than Lady Baratheon_ , he wished to add, but he held his tongue. Lady Baratheon didn't take too well to other women acknowledged as more beautiful than her.

Marya blushed. "You must be japing, Davos! Japing is not your style at all." She giggled like a young maiden. "The Lady Shireen looks happier than she'd been in years," she remarked, smiling. "That poor girl. When she was a child and I was in Lady Baratheon's household, I implored Lady Baratheon to allow Lady Shireen to play with the twins or at least be allowed to play in the garden and enjoy soaking in the sun. She would be healthier if she did."

"What did Lady Baratheon say to that?" asked Davos.

Marya sighed and said sadly. "She told me that the gods have cursed the child and a little sunlight would do naught for her. Then she dismissed me. I was quite happy to leave Lady Baratheon's service. Poor Lady Shireen though."

"Lady Shireen is happy now," said Davos, watching the Lady Shireen laugh at a jape uttered by young Robert Baratheon who seemed to have accepted her as his sister. "Very happy." Lady Shireen met his gaze and beamed at him, her blue eyes sparkling with pleasure. For the occasion, Lady Shireen was seated with all of her siblings and Lord Stannis's wards, pages and squires beneath the raised platform where Lord Stannis, his lady wife, a few visiting Freys and the most influential of Storm lords sat. Davos noticed that the portly, broad and fleshy-faced Ser Ryman Frey, eldest son of Ser Stevron Frey, heir to the Twins, had the privilege of sitting beside a scowling Lady Baratheon.

"She's lovely in the Baratheon colours," commented Marya, admiring the Lady Shireen's gown of black and gold. "All of Lord Stannis's children look exquisite do you not think? Lady Myrcella is so pretty in that red dress."

Davos nodded, a little uncomfortable at the mention of Lady Myrcella. "Look," he said, gesturing to the plates of food in front of them. "No one had put a bowl of onion soup in front of me this time." Marya laughed.

In the first hour of the feast, Davos ate his fill and talked to Marya and some of their sons. He learnt that young Stannis yearned to be a knight in the Kingsguard; Steffon desired a position in the royal fleet like his elder brothers; and both boys were at a loss when it came to sums. "Maester Jurne will help you," Davos said to them with a chuckle, "or Maester Pylos, Maester Cressen's old assistant maester." Lord Stannis was still in the middle of deciding which maester to send to serve at Dragonstone. Davos suspected it would be Maester Jurne.

Marya's forehead wrinkled as she frowned. "Maester Jurne, Davos?"

"Yes. It won't be long before Steffon and Stannis come and live here when they squire for Lord Stannis and continue their education like their brothers did. Is it a problem, Marya?"

"No." Marya's smile was strained. "Not at all."

"Marya, if there is anything at all-"

"Lord Seaworth?" Davos glanced around in annoyance and saw a Frey waiting to speak to him. Marya prodded him in the arm. "Talk to him," she whispered. "It is probably more important. I will see to you tonight." Davos nodded worriedly. _I should be pressuring Marya about her issues – what if she is gravely ill?_ He forced a smile on his face and bade for the Frey to sit down. Marya had turned to speak to their sons again.

"I am Walton Frey, Lord Seaworth," the Frey man began. "The third son of Ser Stevron. You may have heard of me."

"I'm afraid I have not," said Davos honestly.

"Oh." Walton Frey remained unfazed. "I see. Well, I _have_ heard of you, once Ser Onion Knight eh? Now a lord." To Davos's discomfort, he leant closer. "What say you to uniting our Houses?" Walton Frey whispered excitedly. "I have a daughter and you have well, seven sons."

"I thought Ser Ryman is in charge of negotiating betrothals."

"My drunk brother? Pah. Ryman's a fool and too besotted with his wine cup. If we leave the negotiating to him, we will be brokering until winter comes! No. It's up to me to do the negotiating."

Davos arched an eyebrow. "Edwyn Frey then?" he suggested.

"Come now Lord Seaworth!" said Walton in a whiny tone. "At least consider it, my good man! I am prepared to offer a generous dowry – much more vast than a dowry any of my brothers or cousins will offer you! And," He paused. "My wife is _aunt_ to Ser Harrold Hardyng, the Arryn heir." He smiled triumphantly. "Aunt. My daughter will give you grandsons with not solely Frey blood, but also noble blood of Houses Hardyng, Waynwood and Royce, three _most_ influential noble Houses in the Vale. It is a brilliant match, Lord Seaworth."

"Lord Arryn's heirs are his sisters," said Davos flatly. " _Then_ Ser Harrold."

"Of course my lord Seaworth. Of course."

"Which one is your daughter?"

Walton nodded at a comely-looking young woman sitting in a huddle of Freys – her sisters and cousins? "My daughter Walda," Walton said proudly. "Named in honour of my grandfather Lord Frey of course. A lovely girl, Lord Seaworth. She's accomplished in embroidery and can sing quite well. What do you say, my lord? I hope you are satisfied to accept her as a good-daughter."

"I cannot say anything at the moment. My eldest son Dale should arrive soon. I will be leaving the choice of bride up to him. If he wishes to take Lady Walda as a wife, I will be happy to discuss their betrothal terms with you."

Walton's weaselly face beamed. "I look forward to discuss terms with you my lord Seaworth." He disappeared almost instantly in the crowd of lords and ladies. Davos sighed gloomily. Hopefully Dale would be taken with Lady Walda Frey as a future bride. Davos glanced around. Marya had left and their younger sons were in a deep conversation with a couple of young lords about famous knights. In the need for a walk, Davos stood up. _Marya never felt at ease in feasts_ , he thought, his mind tinged with concern for his wife. _Even if she is decked from head to toe in an immense array of jewels, she will never be happy_. Their first feast was exciting and memorable; the second less so. When Stannis appointed Marya a lady-in-waiting for Lady Baratheon, it had been an honour. It seemed though that the Lady Cersei Baratheon was less appreciative of a Seaworth than Lord Stannis was.

Davos slowly made his way around the Great Hall, watching the nobles of the Stormlands converse with each other. Proud Swanns spoke to chivalrous Selmys; Wyldes and Carons dined with their Frey relations; and red-haired Conningtons sat near the double doors, the spot of disgrace. From his conversations with Lord Stannis, Davos learnt that the Conningtons were once a proud and wealthy house that had been in disgrace since King Robert's war.

Lady Shireen's laughter interrupted Davos's thoughts. He blinked his worried feelings away and smiled as he saw Steffon Baratheon gallantly lead his sister the Lady Shireen onto the dance floor. On the rare occasion such as this, Davos felt a tiny pang of pleasure noting Lady Baratheon's disapproval. Usually Lady Shireen would be hidden away in her small chamber while her siblings danced and ate all evening under Lady Baratheon's cold yet gracious smile.

Lady Baratheon did not even feign a smile today.

"The young Lord Steffon is a good dancer," Davos overheard an elderly lady in green with a silver deer pendant around her neck remark to the young lady who sat beside her. "He is much like his namesake and grandfather. Oh, when the late Lord Steffon Baratheon was alive, he was a fine dancer. He once held a tourney at Storm's End – it was before that horrid Duskendale affair mind you – and during the celebration feast, I had the pleasure of dancing with him!" She sighed with joy at the pleasant memory as her companion gaped at her with astonishment. "You never mentioned that Grandmother!" the young lady said accusingly.

The older woman cackled. "It must have slipped my mind, Laera. I would die a content, old woman if _you're_ to marry young Lord Steffon." As her granddaughter protested, Davos looked away. Observing two women argue over betrothals that would never occur was naught new. He had seen plenty in King's Landing. Before he walked away, he heard the Lady Laera's grandmother say, "If my father wasn't such a fool, I would be the Lady of Casterly Rock rather than the Lady of Fawnton. I would be accompanying Lord Tywin Lannister to King's Landing as we speak if I _was_ married to him!"

Davos froze.

 _Lord Tywin is on his way to King's Landing_.

"…your mother would've been a Lannister instead of a Cafferen and you'd be a daughter of the great lord rather than a Penrose," the elderly woman complained as Davos headed straight to the high table. He rushed past Bollings, Bucklers and the droopy-eyed, scowling man in a surcoat bearing the menacing sigil of a black hanged man on a field of dark blue – House Trant of Gallowsgrey. About to hurry up the few steps of the dais, Davos found his path barred by Horas Redwyne.

"Lord Baratheon didn't summon you Lord Davos," the Redwyne boy informed him. "I cannot let you pass."

Davos frowned. "I have done so a number of times before."

"Lord Baratheon is in an important discussion with the Freys my lord." Davos glanced at Lord Stannis who was indeed speaking to a couple of Freys that were seated closest to him. "This is vital," Davos urged. "Surely Lord Baratheon would not mind a small interruption? It is of the utmost importance." Horas frowned. "I won't take too much of Lord Baratheon's time," Davos promised. "Only a minute or two at the most."

Horas Redwyne nodded reluctantly and stepped aside. Davos rushed to Lord Stannis's side, ignoring the irritated glare from a plump lady with sharp emerald green eyes and curls of golden hair. She was garbed in scarlet and sat three seats away from Lady Baratheon.

"Lord Seaworth," said Lord Stannis, looking at him expressionlessly.

"Milord," said Davos as Ser Ryman Frey, flushed red from too much Arbor gold, spluttered with outrage at the disruption. "Forgive me for interrupting your talk, but this is of the utmost urgency." Lord Stannis remained silent for a moment. He rose. "We will resume our conversation when I return," he said to Ser Ryman. He motioned for Davos to follow him out of the Great Hall.

"What is it Lord Davos?" said Lord Stannis shortly. Dining and conversing with the Freys had not improved his mood.

"I am aware you despise all manner of gossip and listening to it milord," Davos said with an apologetic look. "However I overheard from um, Lady Cafferen that Lord Lannister is travelling to King's Landing. I don't know why, but he is."

Lord Stannis nodded slowly. "Perhaps his sister Lady Genna Frey will know. It must be important for Lord Tywin himself to journey to King's Landing. I doubt it is solely because of my foolish brother's meddling."

"Milord?"

"Renly is causing a great deal of unwanted meddling and trouble at court, due to the influence of his Tyrell wife no doubt." Lord Stannis scowled. "Renly wishes for a place at the small council now. Not advisor, but a _position_. Foolish Renly had the temerity to ask the king to appoint him Master of Laws."

"Ser Kevan Lannister is Master of Laws."

"Precisely, Lord Davos. Ser Kevan wrote to me, requesting my help in keeping him as Master of Laws."

Davos hesitated. "Milord, you are-"

"I'm aware of what I plan to do, Lord Davos," interrupted Lord Stannis sharply. "However, Ser Kevan is a competent man and maintained law and order has he's charged to do. Renly is a fool who will be happier accepting bribes and flattery in the stead of keeping law as Ser Kevan is doing. This is a political matter and more important than my own plans. Nevertheless, you say Lord Tywin is journeying to King's Landing of his own volition. We cannot wait any longer. What you'd heard from Lady Cafferen might be news two weeks old, or even more. We will leave in two days, Lord Davos. We will leave with a small guard to make up for lost time. I will rid myself of the Freys tomorrow."

"The Freys may think it a slight milord."

"The Freys were not invited to Storm's End. They came on their own accord. I did what any lord would do – give them shelter, food, drink and entertainment. Is that not enough?"

"What of the children milord?"

"They will be summoned when the king agrees to arrest Lady Cersei. There is no point bringing them to King's Landing only for the king to think I am japing or lying." Lord Stannis scowled ferociously.

Davos nodded. "Perhaps it will be better to spare your children the pain?" he suggested. "They are children after all."

" _Her_ children," Lord Stannis automatically corrected. "I do not know if Robert is ours or hers. The children are proof. The king will not believe me if I show him that ponderous book alone."

"They' will suffer with the shameful knowledge of their true parentage for the rest of their lives, milord. It is cruel to have children paraded around court as the proof of a trial case. Even if they are not your children milord."

"The children are proof," Lord Stannis repeated stonily. "Even Lord Tywin can be silenced in his threats once he sees them. We'll leave in two days. We cannot afford to delay any longer." He gave Davos one more long look before striding to the Great Hall at a brisk pace.

Davos sighed. Tommen and Lady Myrcella were the sweetest children and had shown naught but kindness. They basked in their mother's love and even earned a smile or two from Lord Stannis…before Lady Melisandre told him the truth. _The children are innocent_ , Davos thought as he slowly walked back into the Great Hall. No child deserved to suffer – and to discover such a horrible truth! He shook his head. Both Tommen and Lady Myrcella would be devastated and broken beyond repair, inwardly at least. Davos could already imagine Tommen and Myrcella told their fate: the cold Wall for Tommen and the gloomy Silent Sisters for Myrcella, a motherhouse if extremely fortunate.

"Lord Davos!" Lady Shireen hurried to him. Her cheeks were pink with joy and excitement. She showed him a white handkerchief, its corners embroidered with stags. "A gift from Myrcella," she explained, beaming happily. "She said she made it to make up for all my name days she missed. Is it not kind of her, Lord Davos? I too must give her a name day present in return."

"It is sweet of Lady Myrcella," Davos agreed, thinking of the look of horror that may appear on Lady Shireen's face when she learns she and Myrcella were not at all related. "What have you thought of giving her, milady?"

"A dress," Lady Shireen whispered. "I plan to sew her one. Myrcella said that I look pretty in black and gold and she wished she had a gown like mine as all her gowns are red or pink."

"A wonderful present milady," said Davos truthfully, smiling at her. "When do you plan to give it to her?"

"It will have to be a late name day gift," Lady Shireen said regretfully. "I could ask Cassana for help, but I want to sew it all myself."

"A challenge for you milady," chuckled Davos. Lady Shireen laughed too. As he laughed, he felt a pang of guilt. How could a man live with the knowledge that can shatter a child's world?

* * *

 **Probably this chapter was a little unexpected for some of you, with a bunch of previous chapters set in the North and now suddenly at Storm's End. The plan is for the major storylines to kind of 'meet up' at King's Landing in a few chapters' time. As it is Christmas and I am feeling quite Christmas-spirited, I have decided to set a small, light-hearted and fun competition: guess who the next chapter's POV is. Here are a few hopefully helpful hints:**

 **\- It's a woman's POV**

 **\- She did not have a POV in The Dance of Spring before**

 **\- She has a POV in the ASOIAF books**

 **\- Her chapter will include/reveal a lot of plotting: both plotting in the past and present (hopefully it makes sense)**

 **For the winner: I will write you a festive ASOIAF oneshot based on your favourite pairing (it'll be great if you can tell me what time of their life you want it to be set in such as their first Christmas/New Year feast/party or when they are old with children, grandchildren or no children/grandchildren at all). **

**The winner will be the _first_ _person_ who tells me the correct POV. **

**The competition will end on _Wednesday 28th December (Australia time)_ when I upload the chapter. Have fun guessing and I hope you all have a merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! :D **


	73. Arianne

"Princess, Prince Doran wishes to see you."

Princess Arianne Martell tilted her head like a bird and looked at the tall, bald and fat maester. It'd been two months since she arrived at the Water Gardens per her father, Prince Doran's, request. _Come at once_ , Prince Doran had written. The dutiful daughter she was, Arianne had left Sunspear instantly with her retinue of friends: Andrey Dalt, Sylva Santagar, her milk brother Garin and Tyene Sand, one of her Sand Snake cousins. They'd rushed to the Water Gardens…only to discover that Doran Martell was too occupied with affairs of state to receive them.

For two long months, Arianne lounged around, waiting impatiently for Prince Doran to summon her. She found no delight in watching the children splash and shriek in the pools like her father did. Then again, she was not a child nor a senile, foolish, old man.

"Princess?" prompted the maester, Caleotte.

Arianne sighed. "Prince Doran called me here two months ago for apparently a rather urgent matter. For those two months, he remained hidden in his chambers. I would have considered this a horrid jape if it was not for the fact that my father does not jest, not even in festive days."

"Prince Doran is waiting," Maester Caleotte repeated. Arianne smiled secretly as she caught sight of him tightening his lips in irritation. She rose lazily from her yellow cushioned seat, the loose layers of her flowing purple silk dress wrapping around her slender legs. The golden bracelets on her wrists jingled as she headed out of her chamber and towards Prince Doran's, Maester Caleotte trailing behind her like her shadow. _Maester Caleotte usually does not follow me_ , Arianne thought, the sound of her snakeskin sandals slapping the pale pink marble pavement floor as she crossed the courtyard. _If he is now, it only means…_

She halted in her tracks, Maester Caleotte almost crashing into her.

"It is not Lord Estermont is it?" she demanded, crossing her arms.

"P-princess?" stammered Maester Caleotte.

"Lord Estermont," repeated Arianne impatiently. "Prince Doran didn't call me here to inform me that I am to marry him did he?" She was twenty five years old, almost an old maid. If she was born a man, that would not be a problem, but as a woman…not many men would care to marry an old maid. Her heart hardened. As another of his 'japes', her father had presented her with several suitors since she was fifteen, chiefly Lord Ben Beesbury, a blind, toothless and a little deaf old man, now dead; the odious Lord Walder Frey after he lost his seventh wife; the always sickly Lord Gyles Rosby who'd coughed himself to death sometime last year; the old Lord Hugh Grandison, another greybeard; and Prince Doran's favourite: Lord Eldon Estermont, whose son and heir Ser Aemon, would have been a much more suitable match if he'd not already married and had children of his own.

However, in Arianne's stream of suitors, there had been one suitable lord and he – Lord Renly – was suggested by the King's Hand, Lord Stannis Baratheon. He was in favour of it as was Arianne herself, and now doubt Prince Doran too as it'd been an ideal step towards reconciliation between Houses Martell and Baratheon in his mind. All signs of possible amity shattered when the king decided for Lord Renly to marry his old betrothed, the Tyrell girl.

"Prince Doran wishes to speak to you," said Maester Caleotte, recovering from shock. "What he desires to discuss with you is not of mine concern, Princess. It'll not bode well if you keep him waiting."

"Where do you intend to go then, Maester?" inquired Arianne sweetly. Prince Doran had kept her waiting for two months; he could wait a few minutes.

"The schoolroom of course. The young ones have a lesson today."

"Really?" Arianne squinted at the closest fountain full of laughing children. "Is that not my dear cousin Loreza over there, splashing with her sisters?"

Maester Caleotte reddened. "Prince Doran is waiting," he managed to say. _That is what he does_ , Arianne thought, resuming her walk to her father's room. _That is all he does. Think and wait._

But for what?

Arianne brushed her thoughts aside and strode to the door. The two Dornish guards stepped aside and allowed her to enter. She glanced back. As the maester had claimed earlier, he continued walking away, probably to the schoolroom. She shrugged her suspicions to the back of her mind and walked up to her father who sat facing the open window, watching the children play.

"Father," greeted Arianne, "You wished to see me?"

Prince Doran glanced at her and gestured for her to sit on the cushioned chair opposite him. He looked so much older now, more tired and weary too. Covering his swollen knees was an orange blanket embroidered with a red sun pierced by a golden spear. Arianne sat down, immediately noticing the cyvasse board on the round weirwood table in between them.

"The maesters say winter is coming," Prince Doran remarked mildly.

"Stark words," said Arianne sharply.

"The truth is it not?" Prince Doran picked up an ivory spearman and studied it intently as if it was an ancient treasure rather than a cyvasse piece. "Winter is on its way. Winter will grace us with its presence after it visits the other regions. We have not felt a true winter in years, Arianne. Our winters will be equal to autumn in the North. Perhaps their springs even."

"You summoned me here to discuss the _weather?_ "

"The children out there are the sons and daughters of summer," Doran Martell continued as if Arianne had not grumbled. "They have not experienced winter at its fullest." He smiled faintly. "You were a winter child, Arianne," he noted to her embarrassment. "The first winter child in decades. A hot-tempered infant too, so unlike Quentyn and Trystane. Children are precious, Arianne."

Arianne stared at him. "You will not be holding grandchildren any time soon if I remain unmarried," she pointed out.

"I am quite aware of that. Quentyn wrote to me a few months ago, requesting I give permission for him to marry Lord Yronwood's younger daughter."

"Gwyneth Yronwood?" scoffed Arianne. Last she saw the Yronwood girl, she'd been a small, scrawny, little thing. She was not ugly yet not particularly pretty. It was no surprise that Quentyn liked her though. While Arianne preferred to have a more passionate spouse, sensible, cautious Quentyn would be satisfied with the plain Gwyneth Yronwood.

"An ideal match," commented Prince Doran, putting down the ivory spearman and moving the ivory elephant absently. "From Quentyn's letters, it seems he has close friends at Yronwood and has fallen in love with Lady Gwyneth. He said she is clever and as quick with words as with her hands in sewing."

"You will permit the match?"

Her father looked at her. Before he could say anything, Arianne rushed ahead and said hotly. "I know your plans, Father. You want me wedded to some old and sickly greybeard to ship me away from Dorne so your precious Quentyn could be the next Prince of Dorne. Is that it, Father? You think me too fierce-tempered and Dorne would do better to cower in peace than finally seek justice?"

"That was never my plan." Prince Doran's voice was full of grief. "I don't know where you heard it from, but I never wished to ship you from Dorne. I never even _planned_ that. You are my heir, Arianne."

"Is it true about Quentyn?" Arianne persisted. "I heard you!"

"What you heard was false." Her father sounded exhausted now. "Do you think me a weak man, Arianne? A coward easily bullied?"

"A weak man yes," said Arianne boldly. He nodded. "As do most of the Dornish lords," he murmured, "and my enemies. Sometimes a man weak in body is not as weak in the mind. I deplore bloodshed, but that is inevitable. There'll always be a bloody battlefield whether at land or at sea."

Arianne was baffled. "I do not understand."

"You are quite like your uncle Oberyn. Fierce, hot-tempered…thirsty for blood too. Oberyn still craves revenge for the murders of Elia and her children. Why do you wish for revenge, Arianne? It is not as if a Baratheon or a Lannister killed one or more of your loved ones."

Arianne flushed. "All of Dorne cries for vengeance," she said tightly.

Prince Doran nodded. "Dorne never forgets, and neither will I." His red fingers shook. "Do you truly believe I will be satisfied with the peace talks I had with the former King's Hand? All those false promises and flattering words." He shook his head. "All we received were the bodies of the fallen Dornishmen, Lewyn Martell, Elia and her children.

"It was not long before I found an…ally of sorts in the Master of Whisperers. It was then when I thought of the perfect plan." His eyes glittered like black onyxes. "Dorne had sworn fealty to the dragons, not the stags. When King Aerys died, the loyalty we owed the Iron Throne should have ended there. However, if we claim independence, we will be alone and without allies. That will not do. Shortly after Lord Arryn spoke to me, Lord Varys paid me a visit. He told me news that I could not believe. It took Lord Varys half a year to convince me that what he spoke was the truth. Remember our tour of the Free Cities?"

Arianne nodded. Her mother the Lady Mellario had yearned to see her parents again and Prince Doran acquiesced her request, suggesting they all visit the Free Cities. Arianne was nine; Quentyn four. Trystane was not even born yet. Both her mother and father were still happily married and the tour was exciting and full of celebrations and pleasurable pastimes. Arianne met her mother's parents and all her Norvoshi cousins and enjoyed listening to Uncle Oberyn speak confidently of all the great sights.

That tour was also the last cheerful memory Arianne had of her family united. A few years later, Quentyn was sent to be fostered at Yronwood and then one or two years after Trystane was born, Lady Mellario returned to Norvos. A couple of years after that, the torrent of elderly suitors arrived.

"…I went to the manse of Magister Illyrio Mopatis with Oberyn," Prince Doran was saying. "At that time, you were with you mother and Quentyn in the Pentoshi Prince's palace as his guests. Lord Varys claimed that he smuggled Elia's son out of King's Landing and ensured he will be taken care of. Lord Varys promised that Elia's son will have a prestigious education and an excellent upbringing and will remain in Pentos until the time is ripe for his return."

Arianne's mouth dropped open. Baby Aegon Targaryen…alive?

"How are you certain the child was truly Aegon?" she murmured.

"He is no longer a child," her father said, eyeing the ivory dragon piece. "He's a young man of nineteen. During our stay at Pentos, Oberyn and I saw the boy Lord Varys claimed to be Elia's son. He _is_ Elia's son, Arianne. When we were at Pentos, I was convinced he was not my nephew, but when I looked at him and held him, I knew that he is Aegon Targaryen, the true king."

"Where is he now?"

"Waiting. Magister Illyrio had already contracted for him a couple of sellsword companies including the Windblown and the Golden Company. Aegon will not be waiting for much longer though."

"Uncle Oberyn oft told me you said to him that Dorne would not survive alone and without allies."

Doran nodded. "We do have an ally – House Tyrell."

"The _Tyrells?_ "

"I negotiated a pact with Lady Olenna Tyrell many years ago. We agreed that a day in the future, we'll restore the Targaryens to the Iron Throne which will also end all disputes and enmities between Dorne and the Reach. As you're aware, the best method to seal a pact is through marriage. In our case, _marriages_." He gazed at Arianne again. "Dornishmen usually do not wed Reachmen and with a strong, united alliance, the Stormlands will be isolated between us. That's something the king and his Hand do not want."

"The King's Hand _is_ the Lord of Storm's End."

Doran nodded again. "As you are a woman and my heir, it would have aroused the Lord Hand's suspicions if I did not betroth you to any lord."

"Ben Beesbury, Walder Frey, Gyles Rosby, Eldon Estermont, Hugh Grandison," Arianne chanted bitterly. "All old men. Did you mean to insult me, Father? Every single consort you suggested were all slights."

"You have been promised for sixteen years," said Doran softly. "As part of the alliance with House Tyrell, you are to marry Willas Tyrell."

"I tried to travel to Highgarden with Tyene but you had ordered Uncle Oberyn to intercept us!"

"The time was not ripe."

 _The time is never ripe to you Father_. "I know my duty's to provide an heir – I'd never forgotten it. I would have gladly went to Highgarden and wed Willas Tyrell, but why did you not tell me about my betrothal for sixteen years? I am no longer a young maiden, Father."

"I have not finished," said Prince Doran calmly. "The original pact between our Houses were to include three marriages: yours to Willas, the Lady Margaery's to Aegon Targaryen and Princess Daenerys's to Quentyn. The marriages were to be set in place once Aegon arrives in Westeros."

Arianne frowned. "Who is Daenerys Targaryen? There hadn't been a Daenerys Targaryen since the Princess Daenerys who wedded our ancestor Prince Maron. I never heard of another Daenerys Targaryen."

"Princess Daenerys is the daughter of the Mad King," her father explained. "It's not widely known that she is still alive." He smiled. "Only a few people know that she is in Winterfell masquerading as the late Lord Dayne's bastard daughter. It'd been convenient the Daynes looked similar to Targaryens and the late lord didn't keep much contact with his sister and good-kin. Besides, it was Lord Varys's idea to have the Targaryen girl hide in Winterfell. It was the least obvious place you'd find a Targaryen after all. When she grew up, Lord Varys attempted to have a few of his little birds hint her true heritage to her. It failed and Lord Varys left the boy to survive in Winterfell alone. There were plans to have Daenerys sent here for a year or two of fostering, but I feared some would put the pieces together and find out her true identity. It would be disastrous for say a Lannister to discover it and spirit Daenerys away to Casterly Rock." He darkened. "It would be even worse if the Lannister weds her and claims the Iron Throne. However, plans changed two weeks ago. The pieces moved drastically. The board needs to be reset."

Arianne was more confused than ever. "I do not understand."

"Daenerys Targaryen married," said Doran simply. "Lord Stark is travelling to King's Landing as we speak. Instead of wedding Princess Lyanna, Robb Stark had wedded Daenerys, knowing her as Daenerys Sand."

"A fool!" Even in Dorne where bastards were accepted as the products of love, a Dornish lord would never marry one. Though Uncle Oberyn loved Ellaria Sand, she would always remain his paramour. For the honourable Eddard Stark's heir to spurn a princess for the girl he known as a bastard-! "What will happen now? I assume the Tyrells are aware of this?"

Doran shook his head. "This concerns us more than them. The Lady Margaery will still be Aegon's queen. We lose a Targaryen marriage."

"What will happen now?"

"Nothing much at all. We are still of Aegon's blood. The plan will proceed, even with Lady Margaery, now Lady Baratheon of Dragonstone. Her marriage to Lord Renly will never be consummated – Ser Loras will ensure that – and she will still be a maiden when she is presented to Aegon. In fact, her marriage will benefit us and the Tyrells more than the king would have expected. Lord Varys's little birds reported that Ser Loras had already convinced Lord Renly to remove the men the Lord Hand placed at Dragonstone when he was Lord Protector and replace all of them with Tyrell men. That will be useful when Aegon returns."

Arianne's mind was still spinning at all this information. "I'll no longer be your heir when I marry Willas," she said tightly. "Dornish law states that a female heir loses her place as heir apparent if she weds another heir or great lord."

"I had considered Quentyn as the next Prince of Dorne," her father admitted. "I am not proud of it, but it would be more befitting for Princess Daenerys to be the mother of future Dornish princes. It would not be right for the last Targaryen girl to be wife of any Dornish prince." He looked at her helplessly. "The people won't accept a Tyrell as your consort, Arianne. Especially the future Lord of Highgarden. I want peace between Dorne and the Reach, but…"

Arianne nodded curtly. "It is too big of a step." She stood up. "I hope you'll be a great deal happy when this Aegon Targaryen is restored to the throne," she said sarcastically. "With it will come the rise of the Tyrells, not us Martells Father, but the Tyrells. The Tyrells will not thank us – they will bask in power and leave us in the dirt. I hope Quentyn will be a successful Prince of Dorne being as weak as you, Father, and I will never forget you robbing me of my rights." She stormed off, her anger augmenting as her father wheeled himself after her.

"Quentyn will _not_ be my successor," Prince Doran called out to her. "Daenerys is already married. There is no point declaring Quentyn my heir."

"You said no Dornishman will accept the Lord of Highgarden as my consort. It is the truth after all."

"I have no desire to rob you of your rights, Arianne…"

"I would rather marry Eldon Estermont," said Arianne savagely. "At least with him as a husband, he would probably die bedding me and I will still succeed you as Princess of Dorne. You said you have no desire to rob me of my rights, but you intend to with the Spider and the roses of Highgarden." She scowled and pointed at the cyvasse board. "All you care about is your game! All this waiting! Have you considered what would happen if Aegon does not win the Iron Throne?"

"I thought of everything," said Doran softly. "If we win or if we lose…there had been nothing I had not thought of."

Arianne ferociously jabbed a blood orange with her dagger as she fumed with rage. Forcing her to wait two months before telling her she would lose her rights – and to _Quentyn!_ She cursed under her breath. She had never been close to both her brothers, with Quentyn at Yronwood than Sunspear and Trystane residing at the Water Gardens (not to mention the eleven years between him and her); she'd never hated either of them though…until now.

It was Quentyn Arianne loathed. He was too much like their father: cautious, a thinker, weak and prone to waiting. He had absolutely _no_ passion in his veins and their ancestor the warrior queen Nymeria would undoubtedly be disappointed in him. According to her cousin Nymeria Sand who heard it from one or both of the Fowler twins, that Quentyn was still a virgin. Arianne almost laughed. She herself had lost her virginity to Daemon Sand at the age of fourteen. If she was born into House Lannister or House Tyrell, she would've been sent to the Silent Sisters for her harlot behaviour and losing her maidenhead.

When Arianne told her father about it immediately after the sweet and clumsy encounter with Daemon Sand, he had done nothing. _He's very good at it,_ Arianne reflected, _doing nothing_. She despised him for that. Doran did nothing when she'd lost her maidenhead; not a single reproach or punishment for Daemon. He never did anything except sit and think.

"I need a drink," Arianne muttered, yanking out her dagger, the blood orange's juice splattering on the front of her dress. She didn't care. She viciously stabbed a second blood orange and sullenly watched the juice oozing out of its thick orange skin. The last time she wounded blood oranges was when her father offered Lord Walder Frey as a potential consort…during a family supper.

Arianne darkened. _I will be the next Princess of Dorne_ , she promised, her dark eyes glittering with determination. She looked at herself in the round mirror that hung on the wall opposite her. Her thick black hair fell into ringlets over her slim shoulders and her full lips formed into a tight line.

 _I will not lose my rights, Father. I_ will _be the next Princess of Dorne._

* * *

 **I tried to upload the chapter last night but the internet connection was terribly slow and then gone :( I attempted to upload it again early this morning, but same situation so my apologies for the lateness of the chapter. My apologies again if this chapter isn't particularly interesting, but it serves more as a reminder of _The Patient Prince_ chapter and Doran's plotting. **

**The winner of the competition is _Igl_! :D _Igl_ , can you please tell me which pairing you wish for me to write a festive oneshot about and set at what point during their lives? **

**BigStevie, I like unusual pairings and I'll write the Arianne/Jon Snow oneshot. It might not be done before New Year's, but I'll still write it :) Would you prefer it in Jon's perspective or Arianne's?**

 **Personally I enjoyed setting the competition so much that I think I'll do it again haha - like now. Here are a few hints to hopefully help you guess who the next chapter's POV is:**

 **\- Again, it's a woman's POV**

 **\- She had more than one POV in The Dance of Spring**

 **\- She has POVs in the ASOIAF books**

 **\- Her chapter is part of the Northern arc (Eg. Wildlings and Robb and Daenerys's marriage)**

 **For the winner: Set me a ASOIAF oneshot prompt about your favourite pairing you really want to see written and I will write it for you. **

**The winner will be the _first person_ who tells me the correct POV. **

**Have fun guessing! :)**


	74. Arya III

_Quiet as a shadow; light as a feather._

Arya crept down the dungeon stairs, one small step at a time as she listened to the steady beats of her heart. She suddenly froze, balanced on one bare foot – her left – as she caught sight of him.

There he was, slinking silently towards the bowl of water that one of the night guards had carelessly left behind. _Ah_ , thought Arya, her eyes shining with delight and anticipation as she watched the short-tailed black cat take a long sip of water. _My old enemy_. Since Arya started catching cats under Syrio's instructions, she had caught every cat that dwelled at Winterfell from the ancient white cat, its fur now coated in dust that languished in the Broken Tower to the droopy-eyed grey and white striped tabby cat that often slept either in the Library Tower or at the door of the Maester's Turret. Maester Luwin hated that particular cat as it once ripped his parchments into pieces, tipped over a pot of ink and padded all over his copy of the map of Winterfell, leaving ink prints everywhere.

At the beginning of every lesson, Arya would proudly present a cat to Syrio. He would smile and nod at her – a precious praise from him. However, there was the one cat that lurked in the shadows that Arya could never catch. That short-tailed black cat with luminous green eyes and a smirk on its face. Well, Arya was not so sure it was a smirk, but she believed it was. Every time Arya approached him, his whiskers would twitch; in a flash, he would escape.

 _Not this time._

Arya breathed deeply, her grey eyes fixed on that bloody cat. She didn't care if she showed up to her water dancing lesson today covered with scratches – she'll present her foe to Syrio even if she had bloody scratches all over face. That black cat was a menace to Winterfell; stealing food from the kitchens his talent. Gage's own cat was no match for him. Then again, Gage's cat preferred lazing around in the sun and sleeping in the shadows. This cat had no desire to sleep.

Holding her breath, Arya took another step down the stony dungeon steps and hoping the cat did not hear her. She was in luck. That bastard of a cat was lapping up water busily, too occupied satisfying his thirst than noticing Arya. Counting on her luck, Arya slowly tiptoed down another step, keeping an eye on the cat. _Quiet as a shadow_ , Arya reminded herself. _Light as a feather. Quiet as a shadow. Light as a feather_. _Quiet as a shadow. Light as a feather._ Retaining one of Syrio's short and helpful mantras in mind, Arya took another step down, and another, and another, and another-

The cat hissed, the jet black fur on its short tail standing on end. Its vivid green eyes met Arya's.

He bolted.

Running as fast as his scrawny legs could carry him, the cat bounded up all the dungeon stairs before Arya could even react. Arya cursed sharply and raced after it, muttering profanities that Mother would _certainly_ not approve of. By the time she reached the top step, the bastard had already darted towards the direction of the kitchens. Arya cursed again. _Not the kitchens_. Last time she attempted to grab him, he had her running into the kitchens after him _twice_ in one chase before he took off towards the schoolroom. That bloody cat seemed to have known that she wouldn't follow him there when Septa Mordane was conducting sewing sessions, which was at least thrice a day.

Huffing angrily, Arya headed to the courtyard, just in time to greet Lyarra and Domeric with Father, Mother, Robb, Daenerys and Jon. Theon would probably be lurking in a tavern or a brothel, thus absent – as usual – from greeting Lyarra and Domeric, and the Reeds would be in the godswood praying. Arya liked Meera and enjoyed hunting frogs with her. Though she was still unused to the unusual taste of frogs, she found hunting frogs fun. She didn't know what to think of Jojen Reed though. He seemed to detest training as much as Arya hated sewing. Jojen wasn't as good with the sword as Jon and Robb were; he couldn't shoot nearly as well as Theon could; and his spearing skills were obviously more basic than Meera's. He _did_ enjoy spending time in the godswood though.

"Arya! Have you been catching cats again?"

Arya stopped in her tracks and grinned sheepishly. Staring at her with arched eyebrows and a bemused yet slightly aghast expression near the Great Keep was Mother. Beside her with shadows under his eyes was Father, who still spared her a chuckle. To Arya's astonishment, Jon was the only other person standing there waiting to greet Lyarra and Domeric.

"Where's Robb and Daenerys?" Arya asked, glancing around. "They know that Lyarra and Domeric are coming here today don't they?" Robb would never avoid greeting their sister and one of his best friends and Daenerys wouldn't either. It was very odd…and suspicious.

"Robb is writing a letter," said Jon hesitantly, "and Daenerys is…ill."

Arya looked at him curiously. Robb writing a letter? At this time of day? An ill Dany was plausible. She was oft ill at a certain time of each month. "Moon blood," Mother has explained, "moon blood pains." Arya shuddered. She counted herself fortunate she hadn't flowered yet. From Daenerys's constant tummy pains, Arya considered flowering a horrifying part of a woman's life.

"I thought your water dancing lesson ended a couple of hours ago," remarked Father. "A bit late for you to catch cats isn't it Arya? What'll you do if you caught a cat at this time? Keep it in your room?" He chuckled a second time. "I don't think Nymeria will be pleased."

Arya rolled her eyes. "It was that short-tailed black cat I was chasing," she said defensively. "You know, the one that terrorises the kitchens. I have been trying to catch that cat for _weeks_. I thought I would surprise Syrio."

"Perhaps you should've changed clothes before greeting your sister?" Mother said reproachfully. "What will Lyarra and Domeric say to seeing you in ripped ah clothes?" Arya glanced at her brown jerkin ripped by cat claws and then down at her brown roughspun pants that were hacked off above her scabby knees.

"Lyarra wouldn't think less of me," said Arya, staring at her bare feet.

"At least wear shoes?" suggested Father.

Arya huffed and stood next to a silent Jon. She watched the portcullis rise and Domeric and Lyarra ride into the courtyard, the former on a red steed and Lyarra on a white palfrey. Arya stared enviously at Domeric's horse. She would've loved to ride such a horse like Domeric's.

Lyarra and Domeric greeted Father and Mother, Jon and then Arya. Arya shot a triumphant look at Mother after Lyarra and Domeric dismounted. Lyarra didn't look the least bit shocked to see Arya barefoot and in ripped clothing with knotty and tangled hair.

"Your mother and I will be leaving for King's Landing soon," Father said softly to Arya as he gently pulled her away from the others. "I thought it would be best to tell you now. It's business," he added before Arya could inquire why. "You will find out more about it later, but for now, all you need to know is we'll be leaving for King's Landing tomorrow around the same time Lyarra and Domeric plan to depart for the Rills. I know it isn't ideal, but the matter is urgent. Robb will be the acting lord in my stead and I want you to behave like a lady, understand? He will be feasting northern lords here for the first time and I'm certain you can guess it is not an easy task. You will still have your water dancing lessons with Syrio, but no more catching cats. I will be having a word with Syrio about it."

"When will you be back?" said Arya, wondering what important matter could call Father and Mother to King's Landing so soon. "A month?"

Father laughed quietly, his dark grey eyes solemn. "It will take us a little more than two weeks to get there and two weeks back. We'll be there for at least two or three months. Uncle Benjen will be coming with us too."

"Can I come?" said Arya suddenly. "Maybe I can spar with Bran."

Father shook his head. "Not this time. Next time you can train with Bran. Best behaviour for Robb," he said again. "Maester Luwin will be keeping an eye on you and will be writing reports to us."

Arya nodded. "I promise I won't embarrass Robb in front of the lords." She did not promise to stop catching cats though. Syrio had said the small scratches that she received from cats were nothing compared to what her enemies would do to her. Besides, she had not given up on catching that short-tailed black cat.

* * *

After Arya changed into a "much more appropriate supper attire," (a light grey dress) according to Mother and Septa Mordane, she tiptoed around the corridor, amusing the maidservants who hurried to and fro, carrying buckets of hot water, linen cloths, furs and soiled clothes. _Quiet as a shadow_ , she told herself, _light as a feather_. Father never said she couldn't practise in the corridors.

For the occasion, she even had Needle with her. She was never allowed to take Needle into the Great Hall, but there were still hours before supper and she could easily slip back into her chambers and put Needle back into the soft grey leather scabbard on the small weirwood table that stood beside her bed. Once she would place Needle under her plump pillows, but after one of the maidservants found it and fainted from horror ( _a coward_ , Arya remembered), Father had ordered Arya to never put Needle under her pillows again. That went for all the boys too. When Jon heard what had happened, he laughed so hard he almost choked on the small spoonful of oatmeal in his mouth. Theon too had guffawed before turning to Jon and Robb and uttering a number of rather filthy japes about _his_ sword. Arya had been sorely tempted to throw a spoonful of oatmeal at him.

Closing her eyes, Arya began to wander around. It wasn't the best idea to walk around with her eyes closed in a dress, but it was much too late to change clothes again. If Septa Mordane caught her in "peasant clothes," as she called them, Arya would probably be punished by being forced to spend an extra hour sewing with the other girls tomorrow under Septa Mordane's hawkish eye.

 _See with your ears and nose_ , Arya told herself as she spun around in a circle to confuse herself. Dizzily, she held out her arms for balance and tentatively took a step forward. She slowly turned her head and heard…something.

Voices.

Excited, Arya slowly followed the trail of voices, her eyes firmly shut. _See with your ears and nose_. After a few minutes, the voices grew louder and sounded as if they were right next to Arya. Arya reached out and touched the cold stone. _Walls_. She quietly flattened herself against the wall and listened. With a sudden jolt, she realised the voices belonged to Lyarra and Daenerys…and they were arguing.

Arguing?

"You fool!" Lyarra was saying in an unusually furious tone. "Why did you not refuse when…" Arya pressed her ear against the wall, attempting to hear more of their argument. It was so unlike Lyarra to snap at anyone!

"It was a spur of a moment decision." Dany was now pleading with her. It was unexpected. _Very_ unexpected."

Lyarra retorted something back. It was quieter now, but her tone remained as angry as it was before. _I shouldn't be here_ , thought Arya. _I shouldn't be listening to this_. She was about to run off when Lyarra's voice rose.

"The fall of House Stark will be your fault. Yours and Robb's."

Sensing the argument was at an end, Arya's eyes flew open and she bolted fast to her chamber, as swift as the short-tailed cat was in the dungeons earlier today. Her heart pounded as she caught sight of Lyarra leaving her room and striding in the direction of Father's rooms. Well, maybe not Father's chambers. She could've decided to walk the long way to the Library Tower or mayhap to meet with other girls like Jeyne Poole or Beth Cassel for a short sewing session. Arya's gut sensed it was Father's rooms Lyarra was heading to. She wondered if it was wise to find and talk to Dany. _Better not_. It was best to leave one alone after a quarrel.

What did Lyarra mean when she said the fall of House Stark would be the fault of Daenerys and Robb? Arya pondered on the mysteriousness of it as she went to the Great Hall for supper. It was still early, but it would never hurt to show up in hopes of finding plates of lemon cakes or blackberry tarts left behind. The cooks have said fruits were rarer now and desserts would truly be rare delicacies when winter embraces Winterfell.

By the time Arya arrived in the Great Hall, there were already people chatting and sitting down. She recognised Lords Umber and Karstark at the high table and Uncle Benjen at one of the lower trestle tables having a conversation with two of his sworn brothers clad in black. Other members of Winterfell's household sat at the tables and talked in lowered voices, Maester Luwin to Vayon Poole and a few of the household guards to Ser Rodrik Cassel. The household often ate with Arya and her family but it felt somewhat different this time.

"You look lost."

Arya turned and grinned as Jon came up to her. "I thought Mother would be at least pleased I showed up early," she told him. "She isn't here though."

"Lady Stark is on her way," said Jon, pushing her to the high table. "She'll want you to sit at the high table today."

"Why?"

"Father will be making an announcement I think."

"An announcement?" Arya stopped as the worst possible thought crossed her mind. _What if she is betrothed?_ She was only twelve, but Lyarra had been engaged to Domeric since she was _born_. Arya shuddered. Other twelve year old girls were betrothed and some even married. Arya knew the day would come when she was to be betrothed, even if she hated the notion of marriage, but she never expected it to be so soon. She glanced at the two lords at the high table who both smiled at her. _Oh no_. Alarm flashed in Arya's mind. Lords Karstark and Umber both have at least one unmarried son each.

Was that why the lords were here? Did Father summon them for betrothals? It was strange he never mentioned it, but some lords would not tell their daughters about their future husbands until their betrothal feasts. Arya wanted to run, hide and disappear to Braavos.

"What's the matter?" said Jon, looking curiously at her. Before Arya could even respond, Father and Mother walked in with Robb, Lyarra, Arthur and Rickon and Daenerys silently sitting down at one of the tables near the back. Arya's eyes had widened. Lyarra…it looked like she had been…weeping? Lyarra never cried! Well she hadn't in years!

Everyone stood up – except those already standing – and waited until Father, Mother, Robb and Lyarra walked up to their seats on the dais. Before Arya could join them, Father bade everyone to sit.

"I have a few announcements to make," declared Father. Arya bit her lip as she waited to hear the end of her water dancing lessons, the end of her freedom and the name of the man who will eventually claim her as his wife. "The First Ranger of the Night's Watch had informed me that wildlings have launched a war against the Night's Watch. As you know, if the Wall falls to the wildlings, we will be stuck in an endless war with the wildlings ourselves. We will aid the sworn brothers of the Night's Watch as much as we can. Lady Stark and I will head south with First Ranger Stark to King's Landing to request southron troops while Jory Cassel will lead a host of my own men to the Wall with Ser Mallador Locke and Grenn.

"Troops will also be sent out to Karhold with Lord Karstark for defence and as it is now a time of war, all wildlings captured or sighted on northern land will be sent to Last Hearth under Lord Umber's custody. Ravens have already been sent out to every Northern House and no doubt lords will be arriving at Winterfell for more…news." He glanced meaningfully at Robb. "Moreover," Father went on. "In my absence, my son and heir Robb will rule in my stead as the acting lord. All the problems, petitions and disputes will be dealt by Robb until my return. That'll be all." He nodded and the servants began to place dishes of food on the tables. Arya sighed with relief.

"I thought Father was going to betroth me to an Umber or a Karstark," she told Jon with another relieved sigh. Jon barked with laughter. Arya gave him a playful punch. "It's not funny Jon!"

"I cannot imagine you thinking about betrothals," said Jon, still smiling. "What came over you to think about that? I can picture Jeyne Poole dreaming of it – as it is what she already does – but you? What happened to wishing for longer lessons with Syrio? You always said you wanted that. A whole day of catching cats, water dancing and walking around Winterfell blindfolded…! Do you remember that? It was a day you always craved for."

Arya blushed. "Did you know Lyarra and Dany have been arguing?" she said in an attempt in change the subject.

"I am not surprised," Jon muttered gloomily.

"You know why they've been arguing?" said Arya, eager for news.

"I have a feeling I know why. How do you know they have been arguing? Were you listening at doors again?"

"Last time was an accident," Arya retorted. When she was seven and avoiding Septa Mordane, she had wandered to the courtyard to watch her the boys spar. It was what she normally tried to do but that time she had ventured to the armoury to find a wooden sword. In the armoury, she had accidently overheard a raunchy conversation between Theon and Waymar Royce. At the time she did not know it was a bawdy conversation and when she had asked Jon and Robb about it a little later, she didn't understand why they laughed so hard.

"And this time?"

"Lyarra said something to Dany like the fall of House Stark will be her fault. Oh and Robb's fault too. Why would she say that?"

Jon shrugged. "Maybe they were discussing…alternate outcomes to the king's war? You know they like discussing matters like that."

"Lyarra was _really_ angry. She was furious."

"I've never seen Lyarra furious before."

Arya sighed and chewed her lip. She glanced at Jon. His smile was gone and he was brooding again. Jon was always brooding.

* * *

When rosy-fingered dawn touched the tips of the northern mountains, a tired Arya dragged herself from the bed. Every morning it was harder to get out of bed to face the cold day – and it wasn't even winter yet.

She quickly pulled on last night's dress and grabbed her brown furred cloak. It was too cold to wear her water dancing clothes right now. Giving her tangled and knotty hair one swift brush, Arya trudged down the stairs to the courtyard where most of the others were waiting. Even Arthur and Rickon were there with a very sleepy Septa Mordane. The septa looked at Arya and for once, said nothing. Arya hugged Lyarra first and grinned when Domeric ruffled her messy hair. She hoped Lyarra was no longer mad at Daenerys. Perhaps Jon was right. Maybe Lyarra and Dany were having a heated discussion of sorts. It wasn't any of Arya's business to listen in after all.

"We will write to you," Mother promised as she embraced Arya. "Be good and keep an eye out on Arthur and Rickon."

Arya nodded, knowing full well that looking after Arthur and Rickon would be one of the nursemaids' duties. She would play with them at times though as little Rickon loved watching her water dance.

With Robb, Daenerys, Jon, Arthur and Rickon, Arya waved farewell to Domeric and Lyarra and then Father and Mother. Lyarra and Domeric were heading to the Rills – they will pass through Winterfell again in a few weeks. The drowsy Septa Mordane was first to leave, ushering Arthur and Rickon inside the Great Keep too. Jon headed off for an early round of training and Robb and Dany wandered to the godswood together, whispering in lowered voices. Deciding she might find both the Reeds in the godswood (Jojen loved waking early to pray), Arya followed. She silently walked up to them, planning to scare Robb when she heard Daenerys say to Robb, "Lyarra said the fall of House Stark will be our fault. She is right isn't she in saying our marriage will cause your House's downfall?"

Arya almost tripped over her own feet as she halted, her mouth wide open. No, Dany must be lying – Robb was engaged to Princess Lyanna wasn't he? Unable to stop herself, Arya loudly blurted out, "You and Robb are married?"

* * *

 **Happy New Year! This chapter takes place a few weeks BEFORE the last chapter.**

 **The winner for the 2nd competition is _Clary Sage!_ :D I'll write the Jaime/Lyanna oneshot for you - I hope you do not mind a short wait? Anyway, I appreciate your comments on the characters and I'll definitely try and improve them in the next chapters. Honestly I never considered Lyarra and Domeric like Snow White and Charming (yes, I watch and love Once Upon A Time :D ), but now that you mentioned it, I see what you mean. I'll try and work on Jon, but I find writing him a little difficult as I personally dislike him, TV show-wise and book-wise. As for Arya being queen, it's interesting and unusual. It's hard to explain, but I personally find the younger sister (fictional or real life/historical) marrying into a higher title (Eg. Queen) over the elder a little irritating or hard to take in if you know what I mean? Sorry if it's not a clear enough explanation. **

**Spectre4hire, funniest thing was that this chapter was originally meant to be a Lyarra chapter before I changed my mind and trashed it. Even funnier was that I planned for it to be a Catelyn chapter afterwards as she will end up contributing to the Northern arc when Ned and Ashara arrive at the capital. I ended up changing it to this Arya chapter as I decided it would be better for a transition chapter including the send-off rather than suddenly placing Ned and Ashara in King's Landing.**

 **I hope you guys have a great year!**


	75. Catelyn VII

A smile hovered on Catelyn's lips as she gazed at the massive and heavy cloth-of-gold on her lap, the crowned stag emblazoned in the centre with black onyxes. It took a few weeks to sew herself, but it was finally done.

It was her daughter Lyanna's maiden's cloak.

Some of Catelyn's ladies had raised their eyebrows when she'd announced she planned to sew Lyanna's maiden's cloak herself. "Why not have the seamstresses make it Your Grace?" Lady Margaery Baratheon had asked. It'd bothered Catelyn that after a brief honeymoon, Lady Margaery had followed her husband Renly to King's Landing rather than to settle in Dragonstone. Catelyn did not answer Lady Margaery; she would not understand a mother's love for her daughter.

"It looks lovely Your Grace," said Lady Roslin Frey shyly. Lady Roslin, a girl of eighteen, was one of Catelyn's newer ladies. She was small for her age, had white skin, a pretty face with a small chin, delicate nose, and big brown eyes. Today her brown hair was coiled into a long braid. When unbound, it would reach her waist. Lady Roslin had inherited no weaselly features from Lord Frey and was certainly one of his prettier daughters.

Catelyn smiled at her. "Thank you Lady Roslin. Do you miss the Twins?"

"We will always miss our homes Your Grace," Lady Roslin responded, "though I find the Twins stifling from time to time. However, my brother Ser Perwyn said that if he is granted Rosby, I can live there with him and our other brother Olyvar instead. The Twins does get crowded very quickly."

"I do not miss Highgarden as much as I should," chirped Lady Margaery. "It's a lovely place, but King's Landing is _much_ more exciting. How long will you stay at court with us Lady Roslin?" She smiled sweetly. "There's a strong chance that my grandfather Lord Leyton Hightower will be granted Rosby. His first wife was the late Lord Rosby's niece after all."

Lady Roslin looked at Lady Margaery. "My mother was a Rosby my lady," she stated calmly. "Her grandfather was Lord Rosby's younger brother. My brothers and I have Rosby blood in our veins."

"Ladies," said Catelyn loudly before Lady Margaery could retort. "Please, let us leave the matter of the Rosby inheritance to the small council." She had heard the Rosby inheritance conflict through her husband's grumblings over the last week. Again through Robert, she learnt that her kinswoman Lady Shella Whent, Lady of Harrenhal, had died in her sleep a few months ago without any surviving sons or daughters. As the great grandchildren of Lady Whent's predecessor Lord Walton Whent, Catelyn, Lysa and especially Edmure, all had an excellent chance of being granted Harrenhal.

"Of course Your Grace," said Lady Margaery sweetly.

 _Too_ sweetly.

Catelyn looked at the cloth-of-gold cloak on her lap again. "No expenses would be spared for Lyanna's wedding to Robb Stark," Robert had declared a couple of days ago. He even said he would have Ser Barristan Selmy knight Robb before he wed Lyanna – a pre-wedding present of sorts. Catelyn felt a tinge of unease at the thought of the wedding cost. The treasury was no longer flowing with gold as it'd once did when Robert first ascended the Iron Throne. Catelyn wondered if there would be enough coin to celebrate Orys's wedding just as lavishly. The thought of Robert borrowing coins from the Lannisters worried her too. What if Lord Tywin suddenly demanded repayment? The crown was in no position to repay even half of the debt. What if Lord Tywin wanted one of her daughters to marry his dwarf son Tyrion? Catelyn almost shuddered. Thank the Seven Lyanna was to marry in a matter of months and Minisa still a young girl.

"Your Grace," said Uncle Brynden, entering the chamber. "Lord and Lady Stark have arrived along with a man of the Night's Watch." Catelyn brightened up. She still exchanged letters with Ashara, but letters were rarer over the last few weeks. Catelyn suspected Ashara was busy arranging last minute wedding plans for her daughter Lady Lyarra's wedding.

"Thank you Uncle," said Catelyn, folding the cloak and standing up. She turned to Lady Blackwood. "Can you put this in the chest in my room?" She handed it to her. "The chest near the window please." The other ladies stood up, curtsied and dipped their heads as Catelyn made her way out in her uncle's company.

"Lady Stark did not mention coming to King's Landing," Catelyn remarked. "Is Robert aware of it?"

Uncle Brynden shrugged. "I was mostly assigned to guard you or the children over the last few weeks. Perhaps my sworn brothers would know more. I suspect the king is aware of Lord and Lady Stark coming to court as Lord Stark would no doubt have written to the king before setting off. I do wonder why Lady Stark has come here too though."

"Is Robb with them?"

"I did not see him. They might have left him at Winterfell as acting lord. Good experience for the boy." He nodded approvingly. "Your grandfather would go and visit King's Landing from time to time to give Hoster good practice of ruling. Orys should have a chance to do that too."

"Orys is still a little young for ruling…"

Uncle Brynden chuckled. "Nonsense Your Grace! Orys is fourteen! A good age to put what he learnt into practice. During the dynasty of dragons, the heir would rule Dragonstone – good practice for kingship." He smiled at her and stood by the doors of the Great Hall as she walked in. Lord Stark and Ashara were standing in there talking to Robert, who looked happier than he had this morning. _Robert will always be in high spirits when he is surrounded by Starks,_ Catelyn contemplated as she walked up to Robert and the Starks with a welcoming smile on her face. Lord Stark was the first to notice her approach.

"My queen," Lord Stark said, dipping his head. "You look well."

"Thank you Lord Stark," said Catelyn, beaming as he kissed her hand. "I didn't expect you or Lady Stark to come here today."

"Neither," agreed Robert. "When I received your letter Ned, I thought it would take you at least a month to travel here!" He chuckled boisterously. "Maybe even more than a month now that winter is coming eh? So where are the children? Did Robb wish to come here early to speak to Lyanna?"

"The children are at Winterfell," answered Lord Stark, "all of them except Bran who is here and Lyarra who is travelling to the Rills with Domeric. My wife and I have come on a…different matter."

Robert's eyes sparkled with interest. Catelyn too, was curious. "Are you both here to take Bran home?" she inquired. "I must tell you that he and Ormund have become very good friends, almost inseparable. They learn swordplay together in the training yard and they are taught together in the schoolroom. I did not expect you to come so soon."

Ashara smiled at her. "We have not come to take Bran home," she assured her kindly. "He is happy here and we do not want to deprive him of happiness. Have you met my good-brother First Ranger Benjen Stark? Ned and I would be grateful if you and Robert can listen to his petition first. He did come a long way after all." Catelyn smiled and looked at Robert, whose grin broadened.

"Benjen!" he roared enthusiastically, crushing the First Ranger into a massive hug. "It's been years! Last I saw you, you were still a young man of sixteen! Look at you now! Ned did mention you joined the Night's Watch."

"Your Grace," poor Benjen Stark managed to say. "It is an honour-"

"Bah! Enough of that Your Grace! Call me Robert! Now what's this you came to discuss? Need more men to man the Wall I suspect? I will have my men clear the dungeons for you. What happened to that other black brother who used to come here? The one with the beard and the the twisted shoulder? I thought he was the one out here gathering recruits."

"Yoren died," Benjen said quietly. "He died two years ago. Killed by a wildling I think. My other sworn brothers said he was ambushed by wildlings when he and a batch of recruits were on their way to Castle Black. Half the recruits died and a lot of them ran away in fear." Robert nodded. Catelyn knew her husband was not at all interested in the wildling situation. "I came here to ask for some troops my king," Benjen continued. "The wildlings have declared war and we had been slow to notice. We thought it was the usual raids, but it were acts of war. As you know, more than half the men of the Night's Watch are thieves, rapers and killers with a little to no experience in the sword and shield and archery. We need troops Your Grace. If the wildlings succeed and win the war, they will invade the North. After that, they'll head south. I saw them in the great ranging, Your Grace. There were so many of them beyond the Wall. Their sheer number will overwhelm us alone. I come here on behalf of Lord Commander Mallister Your Grace."

"A war?" Light lit up in Robert's eyes. Catelyn wanted to groan aloud. When he spent time with the children, he would tell them the stories of the glory days, the times he grasped victory in the war and the Greyjoy Rebellion. Catelyn knew that Robert loathed the political parts of ruling; another war, even if in the icy North? Catelyn could already picture him reliving his victories via telling the children of them whenever he could.

"A war," Benjen Stark confirmed. "A war we are losing Your Grace. Two of my sworn brothers have headed back to Castle Black with some of Lord Stark's men but they will not be enough. Ravens have been sent out to Lord Stark's vassals as well, but they will need time to gather their forces. We don't need a large army to march north; enough men to push the wildlings back beyond the Wall for two to three years will be helpful."

Robert nodded thoughtfully. "I will speak to the small council about it," he said gallantly. "You _will_ have troops Benjen. You have my word on that."

Benjen broke into a smile. "Thank you Your Grace!"

" _Robert_ ," Robert corrected him. Catelyn laughed, a smile on her face as Benjen mumbled an apology. Robert chuckled. "You must dine with us tonight. Ned, you and Ashara too. It had been too long!"

"Thank you Robert, but I must decline," said Benjen swiftly. "I must recruit – it is said that the taverns are good places for finding recruits. As long as I am here, I must continue gathering volunteers. More black brothers are coming too. Maybe another time when the wildlings are vanquished, I will have the honour of dining with you Robert. You and your family."

"You are no longer a mere pup!" Robert chortled. "As you say! Would you like me to recommend a few taverns, Benjen?"

"No thank you Robert. I am certain I can manage."

Robert turned to Lord Stark and Ashara. "What about you two? I highly doubt you will be patrolling the streets of King's Landing, looking for recruits eh? Come and have a drink with us! Drink of…mead," he added hastily before Catelyn could clear her throat and glare at him, "or…or ale."

"That would be delightful," spoke Ashara. "We will be honoured to join you for a goblet of…mead or ale."

* * *

"Now Ned, I doubt you and Ashara came all the way here to accompany Ben," said Robert, smacking his lips as his eyes fixed on the suckling pig placed on the middle of the table. "What is it you wish to speak about?"

"It is…a delicate matter," said Ned quietly. "Regarding Robb."

Catelyn frowned. "Robb?" Ned nodded. Catelyn glanced at Ashara and noticed at once that Ashara was staring at her mostly empty plate – very unusual. Catelyn grew concerned. Ashara had never been silent for long. She'd always have a word or two ready and her conversations were more interesting than those of ladies at court who preferred boasting about the strong qualities of their brothers or sons or husbands to influence her. Some would be bolder and suggest their daughters as companions for either Lyanna and Minisa or their sons as pages at court. They would do anything to advance their Houses.

"Ashara?" said Catelyn softly. "Are you ill?"

Ashara looked up and forced a smile on her face. "Not at all Your Grace. A little tired I suppose, but I am not ill."

"Have I not asked you to call me Catelyn before?"

The smallest of smiles appeared on Ashara's strange expression. "That you did Catelyn," she conceded. "That you did. I'm afraid I won't be good company to you today, Catelyn. My apologies for it."

Catelyn shook her head. "Don't apologise, Ashara. You had a long journey from Winterfell in such a short time. Robert should not have insisted for you and your husband to join us for supper today. I know how tiring travelling can be and with children to worry about! By chance, did Lord Frey try and coerce you to betroth a son or daughter to one of his?"

"It was Ser Stevron Frey who hosted us for a day. He said Lord Frey was ailing and in bed." Ashara chuckled. "First time I ever heard that Lord Frey was ill. So ill that he was unable to speak to us at all."

"I always thought Lord Frey would outlive me!"

Ashara laughed. "As did I! My mother once threatened to marry me to him if I ever misbehaved. I was _terrified_ , Catelyn. There was this tourney at Oldtown – to celebrate the birth of Lord Leyton's first Hightower granddaughter Lady Maelle I think – that I'd attended when I was a girl of fourteen. My mother and both of my two brothers also attended, as did Lord Frey. His fifth wife had recently died and he was hunting for a new wife. That tourney would have been exciting if I wasn't so frightened and worried my mother would betroth me to Lord Frey any minute. When we returned home, I told Mother and she laughed. She then vowed that I'd be wedded to a great Dornish lord, not Lord Frey." She quietened. "She'd died an hour after giving birth to Allyria. My father died shortly afterwards too."

"I am so sorry," said Catelyn softly. She truly was. Ashara must've expected to live in Dorne all her life: marriage to a Dornish lord, having Dornish children and dying contently in her Dornish home. Instead, she was married to Lord Ned Stark of Winterfell, birthed northern children and lived legions away from her Dornish family and her childhood home.

The moment of grief was interrupted by Robert's loud laugh. Catelyn looked at her husband in surprise. She glanced at Lord Stark – it did not seem he uttered a jape at all. "Robert?" she said cautiously. "Is something amusing you?"

Robert snickered and slapped Lord Stark on the shoulder. "Robb's a man!" he declared, reaching for his cup of ale. "A man, Cat!" He guffawed. "Ned just told me that he and Ashara came all the way here to tell us that after a rowdy night, Robb bedded Ned's ward!" His broad shoulders shook as he directly broke into further laughter. "Robb had his first tumble! Ha!" Robert raised his goblet slightly as if he approved of that appalling behaviour…which he probably did.

Catelyn's lips tightened. Robb had never slept around before…she never heard he did until now. What if he liked it? A thought struck her. _What if that woman he tumbled with gives birth to a bastard?_ Catelyn was horrified. Robert had plenty of bastards, but she remembered the moment when she learnt two of his bastards – Edric Storm and Gendry Waters – were to be raised in the Red Keep. Oh it had all been Lord Arryn's idea, but there was no use blaming the dead now. Catelyn was _certain_ that if the girl birthed a bastard, Lord Stark and Robb would both agree to have the bastard raised at Winterfell alongside Lyanna's future _trueborn_ children after she wedded Robb.

Anger swelled in Catelyn. "Robb tumbled with a girl," she said, her slim fingers curling into fists. "He _tumbled_ with a girl."

" _Relax_ Cat," said Robert, waving his hand dismissively. He snickered again. "It is fine, Cat! Besides, wouldn't you rather our daughter Lyanna have a much more _pleasurable_ wedding night?" Catelyn blushed as red as the juicy strawberries on the plate in front of her. Robert snorted and turned to Ned. "All is good, Ned! All's good! Ha ha! I never thought Robb would tumble with a girl! Your ward too, eh? I must say, I don't remember you having a girl ward."

"Daenerys Sand Your Grace," spoke Ashara. "My late brother Lord Dayne's um, bastard daughter. We raised her since she was a babe."

"Ah yes," said Robert, chewing on a chicken leg. "I remember her. Very pretty wasn't she? Silver-haired I think. Mmm. If I was raised alongside a pretty girl like her, I would've fucked her too." He licked his lips. "Would've fucked her hard till the whole castle hears her scream my name." He chuckled.

By then, Catelyn's cheeks flushed hotly with embarrassment. "Lord Stark, you will be sending your ward away won't you?" she heard herself inquire. "What she had done was…disgraceful. Utterly disgraceful."

"Robb bedding my ward isn't all that happened," said Lord Stark grimly. _What else could have happened?_ Catelyn was almost certain Lord Stark was going to tell her and Robert that this Daenerys Sand was pregnant with Robb's bastard. Yes, it was why Lord Stark and Ashara _both_ came to King's Landing to deliver the awful news. Catelyn calmed down a little. It hurt that Robb had bedded a woman, but in truth, he was an unmarried man and all young men were hot-blooded in love and lust. No doubt after Robb marries Lyanna, he would settle down and see sense. A bastard at Winterfell would surely upset Lyanna.

Robert leant forward with interest. "Robb fathered a bastard?"

"Robb married my ward," said Lord Stark shortly. Catelyn's eyes widened. No, he must be mistaken…

The grin disappeared from Robert's face. "What?"

"Robb married Daenerys Sand," Lord Stark repeated. "After realising what he had done, he married her."

"Your son married a bastard?" growled Robert, his eyes flashing with anger. "I hope you are japing Ned!" Lord Stark shook his head silently. Robert rounded to Ashara. "Robb married your bastard niece!" he accused, shaking with rage. "Your _BASTARD NIECE_ Lady Stark! You did nothing to stop them? Your son rejected my daughter, a princess, for your _BASTARD NIECE?_ "

"Robb did the honourable thing Your Grace." Lord Stark's voice rose. "He took Daenerys Sand's maidenhead and married the next day. He protected her honour Your Grace. It was noble of him."

Robert stood up and slammed the table with his fists. The plates and bowls of food and the cups of liquid shook. "YOUR SON HUMILIATED MY DAUGHTER!" He glowered at Ned, full of hate instead of affection. Catelyn bit her lip as she felt her eyes threatened by tears. _I will not weep_. She was a grown woman and queen; not a girl of ten who lost the love of her life. As Robert ranted at Lord and Lady Stark, Catelyn stared at her plate, pain jabbing her heart. Only that morning she thought Lyanna was soon to be married to Robb Stark. She finished sewing the maiden's cloak and now Lyanna was without a betrothed. Robb and Lyanna were engaged since they were babes and now…nothing. No marriage. After all those years Robb decided to wed his bastard cousin. It wasn't even a pretty northern girl he could have fancied. It was his _bastard cousin_.

His _bastard cousin_.

"Please Catelyn…" Catelyn swallowed her thoughts and looked up. Lady Stark was staring at her pleadingly. "Robb did not mean to humiliate Lyanna," she said softly. "He really didn't."

"It is _Your Grace_ , Lady Stark," said Catelyn coldly. Her lips tightened. How was she so blind? It was Lady Stark at fault, not Lord Stark. Lord Stark wouldn't have agreed to foster his good-brother's bastard if Lady Stark hadn't convinced him to in the first place. Lady Stark probably persuaded her bastard niece to sneak into Robb's bed, knowing full well what Robb would do. What for? Catelyn knew.

 _Revenge._

All those years of waiting and plotting to hurt Lord Stark and through him the other lords – even Robert and Catelyn herself – who participated in the rebellion that deposed the Targaryens. It sounded unbelievable and unlike the Lady Stark Catelyn knew, but what if Lady Stark was not the caring, kind and clever woman she thought she was?

Suddenly smothered by a mix of sad and furious thoughts, Catelyn stood up, to Robert and Lord and Lady Stark's surprise. "I will retire now Robert," she said as Lord and Lady Stark stood up politely. She turned to them. "Please forgive me for retiring early my lord Stark, my lady." She walked away from the table as Robert resumed his angry rant.

Catelyn left and slowly headed to her daughter Lyanna's chambers with a sole thought in mind:

 _Lyanna must know the truth_.

* * *

 **I agree that the best way is for Ned to disinherit Robb, but it would be really out of character for him. There will be more on that in the northern chapter soon. Next chapter is a southron chapter. For those of you interested, I am also uploading the oneshot 'Kill the Boy' (my first oneshot!) which is Igl's prompt (Chapter 72 Christmas competition). BigStevie, I will start your prompt straight away :)**

 **Here are a few hints to hopefully help you guess who the next chapter's POV is:**

 **\- Again, it is another woman**

 **\- She did not have a POV in The Dance of Spring before**

 **\- She did not have a POV in the ASOIAF books before**

 **\- She is from the Reach and has spoken to Catelyn in The Dance of Spring**

 **\- Her chapter will dabble slightly in both the Northern and the Dornish plot arcs**

 **The winner will be the _first person_ who tells me the correct POV. **

**I really enjoy creating these little POV guessing games and the prompts you guys set are seriously so interesting! :D**


	76. The Queen of Thorns I

Highgarden was a pleasant place to dwell – for those content to lounge around all day listening to songs, eating sweet cakes, chatting idly and leisurely strolling in the gardens. It would be a perfect home for an old lady to retire and spend the rest of her days resting and playing and cooing with young grandchildren or even great grandchildren or telling them fascinating stories about her long life. It'd be an idyllic retreat for every Dowager Lady of Highgarden.

Almost every.

For the Queen of Thorns, Highgarden was the home of songs, not intrigue and riddles. A comfortable home, yes, but far too comfortable…and safe.

Her lacquer black cane tapping the floor, Lady Olenna Tyrell tottered slowly to the Red Keep's Great Hall, her twin guardsmen Left and Right behind her. At her side was her favourite granddaughter Margaery, who'd elected to accompany her rather than with her husband, Lord Renly. _What is it with two of Mace's sons and daughter wedding dull and foolish people?_ Olenna pondered as she finally reached the great oak-and-bronze doors. First there was Garlan who'd wedded the dainty and bright-eyed Leonette Fossoway and second the prized rose of Highgarden to King Robert's _youngest_ brother, a frivolous and unusually cheerful man who was given the dreary island of Dragonstone to end Mace's constant demands for more lands. Oh there was nothing foolish about Leonette, but she was _dull_. Conversing with Lady Leonette – Olenna couldn't remember if she was a green apple or a red apple Fossoway – was like chatting to one of those gaily coloured talking birds in the Summer Islands.

As for Lord Renly, Olenna knew very well of his…tendencies. _It'd work well for Margaery in the end_ , she thought, hobbling to the front of the Great Hall with Left and Right still behind her. There was the slightest of chances Lord Renly – no, no. Loras would ensure Lord Renly remained well away from Margaery's bed. Maybe it was clever of Mace to demand Margaery to marry Lord Renly of all lords. She'd remain a maid and Mace would be satisfied with a Baratheon good-son. Marrying Margaery to Renly Baratheon was certainly a much better solution than what the Prince of Dorne did to his daughter.

Olenna craned her neck. Ah, the Great Hall was crowded today. The news must be of the utmost importance. She watched King Robert grunt as he ascended the narrow steps to the dais and slowly sit on the most uncomfortable chair in all the Seven Kingdoms. Unusually, there were a couple of other chairs – covered with a black velvet cushion each – placed near the large council table.

"Lord Baratheon has returned," noted Margaery, nodding slightly at the glum-faced Lord Stannis Baratheon who was seated at one end of the table. "I thought he would be at Storm's End for a few months." She made a small noise of surprise. "Grandmother, the Lannister Imp is here too."

"And Lord and Lady Stark." Olenna fixed her eyes on the Starks. Odd indeed. It was Margaery's wedding the last she had seen of them – why were they at King's Landing and so soon? A mystery. No one had mentioned the Starks' arrival, not a single servant or one of the Spider's little birds. News would travel fast at court – not of the Starks this time though. Nor of Lord Stannis's return.

Before Olenna could ponder more on the matter, her oaf of a son walked up to her and Margaery, a broad beam on his face. Olenna sniffed. "What is it this time? Is Desmera to be our next queen, Mace?"

"Much better Mother," said Mace, grinning from ear to ear like a buffoon.

Olenna sniffed again. What could be better than her Redwyne granddaughter a future queen? It would only be more problematic. At least it wasn't a Florent who was set to wed the crown prince.

A herald's loud voice rang out. "All hail His Grace, Robert of House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. All hail Her Grace, Catelyn of House Tully, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. All hail Their Graces Crown Prince Orys, the Prince Ormund, Princess Lyanna and Princess Minisa of House Baratheon."

 _Thank the Seven the queen didn't bear more sons and daughters or we would all still be hear listening to 'all hail His or Her Grace' all night._ Tullys were very fertile though, like those from all families in the Riverlands. Olenna wondered how long she'd be able to remain standing at court if the king had a Frey wife. The thought of an army of black-haired and blue-eyed Baratheon princes and princesses with weaselly chins flooding the Great Hall was horrifying indeed.

Standing at the bottom of the most uncomfortable chair in Westeros were Sers Balon Swann, Garth Hightower and Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer all in white as befitting their status as knights of the Kingsguard. _The Stormlands and the Reach and the Westerlands_ , Olenna mused as the oak-and-bronze doors creaked open at a rather sluggish pace. _Three regions that have produced the finest of knights._ Her ancient bones rattled as she gradually sunk to her knees along with the lords and ladies present in the Great Hall. _I would have died in agony if the king had a dozen Baratheon-Frey children._

From the corner of her eye, Olenna saw Ser Barristan Selmy walk on the roll of red carpet towards the Iron Throne first. _More tired than bold now_. The Crakehall knight – what was his name? Kyle? Hyle? – had the honour of walking beside the king. Following them was Ser Brynden the Blackfish who was naturally escorting his niece the queen, and between them and Ser Arys Oakheart trailing at the end were the four princes and princesses: Princess Lyanna first, then Prince Orys the heir to the Iron Throne, Prince Ormund third and little Princess Minisa last. Even Olenna could not resist the tiniest of smiles as the youngest Baratheon beamed at her sweetly, her black hair framing her heart-shaped face.

The king grunted as he sat down on the Iron Throne, the queen and their four children sitting down on the five comfortable seats provided. The king glanced at the snoring Grand Maester Pycelle and made a noise of disgust. Olenna's nephew Paxter Redwyne, leant over and poked him in the arm. Whispers broke out and a few ladies tittered as the grand maester kept sleeping. The king sighed. "Let's get on with the petitions then," he decided.

Olenna frowned. A morning of ordinary petitions? The murmuring augmented as Lord Renly stepped forward and smiled at his brother the king, attired in dark green velvet, with a dozen or so golden stags embroidered on his doublet. Olenna arched an eyebrow. He looked more a Tyrell than a Baratheon.

"Your Grace," said Renly, grinning broadly at the king. "I come here requesting a place in your small council."

"Your Grace, if I may?" spoke Varys the Spider. The king nodded. "Lord Renly," said Varys, spreading his hands. "There are no positions available."

Lord Renly laughed good-naturedly. "Surely the king will ensure a place open for his own dear brother."

"There are no places open," said Lord Stannis sharply.

"There will be a change in the small council," announced the king, ignoring the argument between his younger brothers. "The time has come for change. Upon a chat with some of the lords, I have decided I will need new councillors. It is quite a sudden change I know." Olenna squinted, furrowing her brow. Did the king just give Lord Stark a dark look? Surely not! She glanced at Lord Stannis Baratheon. It was no surprise that he was grinding his teeth again.

"Before I announce the new councillors, I have an important announcement to make," the king continued. "As you well know, my daughter Princess Lyanna has been betrothed to Robb Stark for years." The murmurs grew. Olenna frowned too. Everyone knew about the betrothal – even that witless jester at Storm's End would no doubt be familiar with it. The king's eyes darkened to a stormy blue. "My lords and ladies," he went on. "It's my sad duty to inform you that the engagement is at an end." His voice rose as the courtiers' whispers increased. "Robb Stark chose to wed the late Lord Dayne's _bastard_ daughter to protect her _honour_. In doing so, he decided to break his betrothal to my daughter, a princess descended from two of the most influential and powerful Houses in the Seven Kingdoms, Baratheon and Tully! Only a fool would jilt a princess for a bastard!"

Olenna glanced at Lord and Lady Stark. Lord Stark remained stoic; Lady Stark at least looked mortified. _She would be_ , Olenna reflected, scratching her chin with her gaunt, thin fingers thoughtfully. _With her son_ and _bastard niece at fault._ If any of her grandsons were stupid enough to marry a bastard, she would hit him with her cane before persuading Mace to disinherit the fool. Thankfully, her Tyrell and Redwyne grandchildren all had more brain than the Stark boy who had too much honour and too little sense. _More like an Arryn than a Stark_. Then again, the Stark boy was rash enough to wed a bastard.

 _The bastard_.

Olenna's heart almost stopped.

 _Lord Dayne's bastard._

If Olenna was in her chambers, she would be pacing. As she was not, she made do with twitching her fingers. Of course Robb Stark would fall head-over-heels in love with Lord Dayne's bastard! Olenna almost snorted. What was it with Starks, Baratheons and Targaryens?

 _Is Prince Doran aware of it?_ Possibly. Olenna had oft suspected that the Spider was more a Martell man than a Tyrell man. Yes, the Spider gave her various juicy titbits of information from time to time and he was invested in the Tyrell-Martell alliance as much as she was, but the king across the sea was half-Dornish without a single drop of Tyrell blood in his veins.

Of course the cautious and pensive Prince Doran Martell would've discovered Robb Stark's little blunder – why else would the Red Viper be travelling to King's Landing that very minute? Olenna inwardly shrugged to herself. What Robb done did not concern House Tyrell as much as it did to the Martells. Margaery was still to be Aegon's wife; nothing would change that.

"…and Lord Stark agreed to compensate," the king was saying. "For at least the next few months until Lady Sansa Arryn's wedding to Ser Harrold Hardyng, Lord Stark will remain at King's Landing and will serve as Master of Laws as he'd once done for me many years ago." A soft punishment, but considering that the Starks hated King's Landing, it would be suitable. "Lady Stark will also return to my wife the queen's household," the king continued, "and her two elder daughters will be honoured with positions at court. Furthermore, Houses Baratheon and Stark will still be united through my son Prince Orys's marriage to Lady Lyarra Stark."

Slightly amused, Olenna watched Lord Stark's eyes widen. Surely it would not be so much of a surprise? It'd been obvious since Princess Lyanna was born that the king would do anything to have a Stark – any Stark – in his family. It was kind of like an obsession even. Why would the king want _two_ Stark girls at court? One – Lady Lyarra – was understandable, but two Stark girls? Unless the king planned to have the younger Stark married to Prince Ormund…

 _No,_ Olenna dismissed in her thoughts. The king would not be so stupid. Both of his sons married to Starks? Every great lord in the Seven Kingdoms with children – specifically daughters – of marriageable age would turn against him. She would not be surprised in the slightest if her oafish son was the first. Besides, if the king insisted on two Stark good-daughters, Lord Stannis wouldn't stand for it. Now _he_ was a man who wouldn't waste two sons on one alliance or allow his heir to wed a bastard to 'protect her honour'. Oh no, Lord Stannis Baratheon would discipline his heir for having a tumble and send the girl away.

"What of Ser Kevan Your Grace?" Lord Stannis inquired to the king. "He's been a competent Master of Laws and served you faithfully for years."

"His service will not be forgotten," acknowledged the king. "I have decided Ser Kevan will remain in the small council but as Master of Coin." He looked down at a clearly unhappy Ser Kevan Lannister. "You served as Master of Coin. Quite well too I believe. You will have no trouble returning to your old position Ser Kevan, I hope. Lord Baelish will give you back all the books you need."

"Your Grace!" Lord Baelish stood up, outraged. "I have served you well as your Master of Coin! I-"

"One last matter," said the king, raising his voice to drown Lord Baelish's irate complaints. "Due to Robb Stark's actions, my daughter Princess Lyanna is in need of a new betrothed." The lords and ladies whispered enthusiastically, most likely making wagers on the Princess Lyanna's future husband. Pompous as a peacock, Mace puffed out his chest. "After careful consideration," the king went on. "I have the uh, pleasure to announce the betrothal between my eldest daughter Princess Lyanna of House Baratheon and Lord Willas of House Tyrell." The court instantly burst into applause.

 _Well, well_. Olenna glanced at the smug Mace. _The Martells will not be pleased at this. They will not be happy at all._

* * *

"House Tyrell is rising," boasted Mace once court was over, "all thanks to me. I cannot wait to tell Willas the news. See Mother? I told you I would find Willas the finest prize of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Oh be quiet Mace!" snapped Olenna grumpily. She was in no mood to listen to her oaf of a son's triumphant bragging. "You said that about Garlan yet you ended up marrying him to a Fossoway!"

"The Fossoways are one of my most loyal bannermen Mother, and Leonette is her father's only child…"

"Well her father isn't the Lord of Cider Hall now is he? Besides, they should be content with your sister as the wife of the Knight of New Barrel. You could've had Garlan wedded to Princess Arianne Martell – he would be prince consort." If that was a possibility, it would be better than the one she brokered with Prince Doran all those years ago. Much better and there would finally be some sort of peace – a fragile one even – between the Reach and Dorne.

Mace looked shocked. "Mother! You must be japing! Arianne Martell? She's no maiden Mother! Surely you'd know that! She is a harlot, a slut, a…a seductress! It is said that she slept with at least a dozen men, some lords and others bastards, a servant even." He shook his head violently. "I'll never accept a Dornish harlot as a good-daughter. Not for Loras, Garlan and especially not Willas. No, Lady Leonette Fossoway is a good match for Garlan and Princess Lyanna even better for Willas. I will find a wealthy girl for Loras one day." He chuckled, beaming proudly. "Ah, a brilliant day for House Tyrell today."

Olenna sighed. At times she wished she had beat him more when he was a boy. If she had, the oaf would not be so boastful and proud all the time. Nor would he be called by the other lords as the 'Fat Flower of Highgarden' behind his back. Ah well, the past couldn't be changed, but the future can.

Leaving Mace chattering to Paxter Redwyne, Olenna tottered to her chambers, Left and Right behind her and Margaery at her side. "Odd turn of events today, do you not agree?" commented Olenna, settling down on her favourite chair.

"Father is pleased," Margery pointed out. "Very pleased."

"Hmmph. What do you think of your future good-sister?"

Margaery stifled a giggle. "She is also my good-niece Grandmother. A beautiful girl, Princess Lyanna. Clever too. I do feel sorry for her. Since the day of her birth, she was preparing herself for a life in the cold North. When she's sewing with her mother the queen, she sews gowns of white and grey. Some of them already have embroidered direwolves on them. Poor girl. A waste of gowns too."

"House Stark's loss; our gain."

"Not a total loss, Grandmother." Margaery paused. "More of a gain honestly. It will be a Stark queen once Prince Orys becomes king. Every Baratheon ruler after him will have Stark blood."

"Lord Stark is not that cunning," Olenna remarked. "He is a deep lover of truth, no matter how brutal. It is not in his nature to be devious. I believe that whatever he told the king was the truth. Lord Stark is incapable of lying successfully. As for his wife Lady Stark…perhaps it is _she_ who wants her daughter married to Prince Orys. She is Dornish too. She probably knows many…methods of seducing a man into doing whatever she wants."

"You think Lady Stark has been manipulating her husband all along?"

"Perhaps." Olenna scratched her chin. "You will have plenty of chances to talk to Lady Stark though, with both of you in the queen's household. Lady Stark and the queen were good friends, from what I heard. Close too. I doubt the queen will be pleased at Lady Stark at the moment though. Now, enough on the Starks. We'll invite Princess Lyanna to sup with us tonight – just us. I'll not have your fool of a father frighten her off into the arms of say, a _Florent_. I wish to know what type of woman my future good-granddaughter is."

"I doubt my father will frighten the princess into the arms of a Florent. Besides, it is the king who desires the alliance."

Olenna snorted. "Come now Margaery! The king is angry he lost the Stark boy he already thought as good-son. He needs a replacement – a great lord or the heir of a great lord of course – and the only one available is Willas."

"There is Theon Greyjoy, but no king in their right mind would want to have a kraken bed his daughter."

"Quite. If Lord Stark is planning to wed off his ward at all, it would be to one of those northern girls. A strong one too. A Mormont most likely. When the princess dines with us, I want you to befriend her. She will be weary of us and may not say much, but I want you to gain her trust. All girls will fall in love with Highgarden, I promise you that, but not all will trust their husbands' families."

"It will not be easy gaining Princess Lyanna's trust."

"Pah. You know her already and she knows you. Build on that."

Margaery picked up a piece of silk from her embroidery basket. "You once told me to befriend Sansa Arryn too, when Father was eager to join House Tyrell with House Arryn. Am I to befriend _all_ my future and potential good-sisters?"

Olenna gave her a dry look. "Garlan's already married and you know as well as I do that Loras is not keen to be married off anytime soon."

"Grandmother, will I still…?"

Olenna's old eyes met Margaery's youthful brown ones. Not many were aware of the Targaryen restoration – only Olenna herself, Margaery and Willas. The sole time Mace the oaf would find out was when the king across the sea lands with his sellsword armies. However, with the latest development…

There was little chance Princess Lyanna would ascend as queen with Willas as her consort, but with a Baratheon good-granddaughter and good-grandson…

"Yes," said Olenna firmly. _The Tyrells owe the Targaryens everything_. "We have planned for years and House Tyrell will be remembered in history for this. You'll be queen as I promised, Margaery. It will not be long now. What is the position of Lady of Dragonstone compared to queen?" As Doran Martell would say, though a few pieces have moved, the game will end the same.

Tyrell and Martell victory.

Olenna's eyes gleamed at the thought of it. King Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name sitting rightfully on the Iron Throne with Margaery as his queen. While the Baratheon king's descendants will have Stark blood in their veins, there'll be Tyrell blood running through the veins of King Aegon's descendants. Tyrells rose under one Targaryen king; they will rise higher under another.

Margaery smiled. "There is a problem though, Grandmother. I am Lord Renly's wife. The Faith will not allow me to take another husband."

Olenna chuckled, rubbing her thin fingers together. "Don't fear about that. We have the means to rid you of an…unwanted husband. One day, Margaery, you will be queen. One day…"

* * *

 **This chapter is basically for all the southron lords to know about what Robb had done. The winner is Clary Sage, but as you specified in the review, I will accept your reasons :) Congratulations spectre4hire! I'm looking forward to reading about the prompt for a oneshot you want me to write for you!**

 **I plan to take a short break from The Dance of Spring soon to get all the oneshots done.**

 **Todd, I really liked what you wrote about Robert pressuring Ned into disinheriting Robb. Like, I really liked it. I might mention some of it in the next Ned chapter, but I kind of already had the remainder of the story roughly planned out :( I also talked to a couple of people and there was an agreement that the difference between Jenny of Oldstones and Daenerys 'Sand' is that Jenny is a commoner while Daenerys - in the eyes of most of Westeros - is a bastard from House Dayne. At least she has a little noble blood. I respect your opinions though.**

 **The chapter after the next one will be back in the North and I'm a little stumped. Whose POV should I write in? Robb, Daenerys, Arya, Maester Luwin or someone else? It will be regarding Robb dealing with the northern lords. The obvious choice will be writing it in Robb's POV, but writing it in the eyes of an observer would be so interesting too. I've decided to let you readers decide which POV the chapter should be in. Currently the options are Robb, Daenerys, Arya, Maester Luwin or someone else (please not Jon - I feel like I might ruin his character even more). If you want to read it in the POV of someone else, please leave a suggestion who :D**


	77. Stannis II

The moment court ended, Stannis strode after the king. To his irritation, Renly followed him. In normal circumstances, Stannis would've remained to settle all of the small council issues after court, but today's circumstances wasn't ordinary in the slightest at all.

"Brother!" said Renly, rushing past Stannis to the king. Stannis's jaw tightened. So typical of Renly to dash around like a fool. The king stopped and looked at him and Stannis, his lips unusually in a straight, tight line and his eyes dark instead of his merry blue.

"What?" the king growled.

"You promised me a position in the small council Brother," said Renly, flashing him a pleading smile. Stannis walked up to them and crossed his arms. "An actual position, Brother. Do you not remember? You said you would consider giving me the office of Master of Laws."

"Lord Stark is Master of Laws."

"Ser Kevan was a proficient Master of Laws," spoke Stannis. "What Robb Stark had done disgraced his House. It should not guarantee Lord Stark the honour of a position in the small council. What Robb Stark had done can also be seen as high treason Your Grace. Breaking his betrothal to Princess Lyanna was foolish of him and truly unwise. He deserves to be disinherited or sent to the Wall, not forgiven, and his sister's hand in marriage to Prince Orys!"

The king glowered at him. "Lord Stark is Master of Laws and will remain so till the Vale wedding," he said shortly, "and as I have lost a Stark good-son, I will gain a Stark good-daughter. Fair trade."

" _Fair trade?_ " repeated Stannis, astounded. "Your Grace! Must I remind you the Lady Lyarra had been betrothed to Lord Bolton's heir-"

"I _WILL_ HAVE A STARK GOOD-CHILD!" the king roared before stomping away, causing passing lords and ladies to look at Stannis and Renly with interest.

"Well that went well," said Renly, attempting to laugh good-naturedly. Stannis did not respond. "Come now Stannis," wheedled Renly. "You must think it's quite unfair that Lord Stark was rewarded-"

"It's more an honour than punishment," interrupted Stannis bluntly, "for lords of the south. However, for northern lords, it is punishment enough. I don't like it, but the king had clearly made up his mind and if he considered it a harsh enough punishment for House Stark, so be it."

"And our future good-niece?"

"You'd rather another girl be married to Prince Orys?"

Renly suddenly looked very shifty. Stannis narrowed his eyes. "I'd rather have an honourable Stark girl as future queen than a Reach girl," he stated.

"Think of it Brother!" whispered Renly, his eyes glittering with excitement. "It would be advantageous for the realm – and for us – with the Reach closely tied to the crown!" He grabbed the edging of Stannis's sleeve. On instinct, Stannis pulled away, grinding his teeth to suppress a horrified shudder. "It will not be long until winter is here," Renly went on. "We'll need plenty of food to survive. Not us alone, but also the people. With the Reach on our side in the oncoming winter, our food stores will be fuller and the people will not starve to death. That's not all. We will also have the aid of the Redwyne fleet if the Ironborn plan to invade."

" _Your_ marriage to Lady Margaery secured us the Redwyne fleet and stores for the winter. We do not need another Reach marriage. One is plenty."

"Come now Stannis…do you not think Lady Desmera Redwyne a pretty girl? A beautiful one perhaps? Much more suited to be queen than the Stark girl I think. I believe the people will be more pleased with Prince Orys marrying a southroner than a northerner." He beamed like a pleased child.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"You are the King's Hand. Your opinions are heard more than mine."

 _You are a fool if you believe the king will listen to me_. "The Tyrells told you that Lady Desmera is beautiful didn't they?" asked Stannis flatly. "I highly doubt you'd met the girl and if you had, I don't think you would know a pretty or beautiful girl on sight. The Tyrells want the match, not you."

Renly laughed. "You are mistaken, Brother. It is _you_ who cannot see a beautiful girl if she is naked in front of you. I certainly can. Here, look." He pulled out a gold locket and opened it. Inside was a miniature painted in the vivid Myrish style of a young lady about eighteen years with dark brown eyes, freckles and a torrent of flaming orange hair.

"The king has already made up his mind," Stannis said again, slowly walking to the Tower of the Hand where Lord Davos would be waiting, hopefully with more news. "There is no use trying to change it. The king is obsessed with a Baratheon-Stark union and he will do anything to arrange one. I doubt the king will agree to have Prince Orys married to Lady Desmera when he just betrothed him to Robb's sister the Lady Lyarra. Even if Lady Lyarra dies before she could wed Prince Orys, the king will substitute her with her younger sister."

Renly sighed. He patted Stannis on the arm. "Think about it won't you? A lady from the Reach will benefit the realm more than a Stark lady. I'm sure you'll soon see that I'm right. Just you wait and see."

* * *

The king did not appear at supper or breakfast the next day. The queen looked more strained than usual when Stannis asked where the king was. She didn't say, but the Blackfish did. "In his bedchamber Lord Baratheon," he had replied with a scowl. "Whore upon whore-"

"Uncle," the queen had cut in, "please, I think Lord Stannis is now aware of um, what my husband has been doing all night and…now." She glanced at the princes, princesses and Bran Stark who were already seated at the table. "Besides, I don't want the children to know."

It would be hard for the young ones to remain unaware of the king's activities, especially at court. However, Ser Brynden respected Queen Catelyn's wishes and fell silent. Usually Stannis would break his fast in his own chambers, but today he had hoped the king would show up for breakfast.

No luck.

There was no point sitting around and listening to the children idly chatter as they do all day. After a small meal of a piece of bread topped with a fried egg – its yolk seeping out sluggishly like a tide of orange slime – Stannis left to find Davos waiting for him outside. "Lord Lannister is about half an hour away from the city gates," Davos reported once they were out of earshot. "I had spoken to one of my old…acquaintances and he said that one of the men in Lord Lannister's cavalcade is the Mountain That Rides."

Stannis's expression twisted into one of disgust. "Is Lord Tywin threatening us with that monstrosity? Does he honestly believe the king will be intimidated into agreeing to whatever Lord Tywin desires?" He shook his head. "Tywin Lannister would not be coming here without good reason. He probably knows that the Iron Throne does not have the means to pay him back at the moment and what better way than to press his demands now?"

Lord Davos looked uncertain. "The people will not appreciate a tax raise, Lord Baratheon. Especially with winter coming."

"I have no wish to raise the taxes Lord Davos. Lord Tywin knows that." Stannis grinded his teeth. Damn Robert for his unsated lust in food and women. So many times Stannis had warned the king against borrowing large sums of money from Casterly Rock. It was most unwise, particularly as Robert didn't have a Lannister queen. A Lannister good-sister was not close enough.

"Lord Lannister will not be generous."

"The Lannisters are proud." Stannis began striding to the king's rooms. "We've wasted too much time," he said decidedly as Lord Davos rushed to catch up. "We need to tell the king about Lady Cersei."

"N-now milord?"

Stannis halted and frowned. "Is there a problem, Lord Davos? We already have all the evidence we need and I came here immediately to inform the king. We did not come here to listen to the repercussions of Robb Stark's marriage. If we wait any longer, Lord Tywin will have gone back to Casterly Rock and who knows the next time he will appear here again." He resumed walking to the king's chambers. It was Ser Garth Hightower he met outside.

"Lord Baratheon," Ser Garth acknowledged with a nod.

"Ser Garth." Stannis nodded back. "Is the king busy?"

The Hightower knight bit his lip. "He _was_ my lord," he said finally. "I believe he is alone now. Perhaps asleep."

"I wish to see him Ser Garth. Immediately."

"Of course my lord." He stepped aside. Stannis went in with Davos. The stench of sweat and sex wafted to Stannis's nose at once. It was putrid.

"Your Grace," said Stannis, watching the king grunt and stand up from his bed. The king padded across the floor towards him. "I have important news-"

"Can you not wait until later?" grumbled the king.

"This is important Your Grace," said Stannis calmly. "Lord Tywin is on his way to the city gates – in fact, he will arrive today. I'm certain you know as well as I do that he is here to demand the return of the loans he granted the crown. You must also know that we are in no place to repay the debts. It is highly likely that Tywin will request many things to forgive the debts – if he forgives the debts that is. The last we need is to hear the Rains of Castamere."

"What is this important news, Stannis?"

"My wife is a whore."

The king stared at Stannis, surprised. He burst into laughter. "A good jape," he chuckled, wagging a thick finger at him. "A good jape Stannis!"

"It is not a jape Your Grace," said Stannis stiffly. "What is worse, was that I was informed she was involved in an affair with her own brother Ser Jaime Lannister. Myrcella and Tommen were their children. Lady Cersei had the gall to claim both of them were mine. I was a fool for not recognising her trickery."

" _Incest?_ " The king looked horrified. "With her own _brother?_ "

Stannis nodded grimly. "Both Myrcella and Tommen have the Lannister looks of green eyes and golden hair while my elder children and your children have the black hair and blue eyes every Baratheon has. Furthermore, I had examined all of the Baratheon-Lannister matches that were cited in _The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms_ , a cumbersome and massive book written by Grand Maester Malleon. In every Baratheon-Lannister union, their issue were all black of hair with blue eyes. I recall your bastard Gendry Waters had a golden-haired mother, yes? Last I saw of Gendry, he was black of hair with blue eyes."

"What do you…plan to do?"

"I refuse to remain married to the whore of Casterly Rock, Your Grace. I yearn for Lady Cersei to be put on trial and I seek an annulment. Once that is sorted, I'll be declaring Myrcella and Tommen bastards of incest."

The king nodded slowly. "Lord Tywin will not be pleased," he warned.

"Your Grace, I'm a man of justice. I geld rapists, cut hands from poachers and a finger or two from smugglers and thieves. Those who committed lesser offences I have flogged and oathbreakers I execute. I cannot allow Lady Cersei to escape the jaws of justice Your Grace."

"Your children will be devastated," said the king quietly.

Stannis stared at him. When did the king truly care about children? When was the last time he spent time with his own sons and daughters? "It'll be a lesson to them then," he said coldly. "They'll learn that both smallfolk and nobles alike are not spared from justice."

"Mmm." The king patted Stannis on the shoulder. "You do what's right, Stannis. I know you will."

Stannis frowned. No arguments? Outright support? Only yesterday after court the king was still furious and rather unreasonable. His suspicious eyes slid to the table beside the king's bed.

It was littered with bottles of Arbor gold.

Noticing him staring at the bottles of wine, the king said quickly, "Don't tell Cat. She will not be happy. Keep it between us, yes?"

"Where did you get the Arbor gold?" asked Stannis.

"Gifts from Renly," grunted the king, grinning at him. "He received caskets of it and gave it to me in secret. I would have the servants hide the caskets every time Cat comes for the night. Thankfully she doesn't come as much these days. Would you like a goblet of Arbor gold, Stannis?"

Stannis shook his head. A small council meeting was to start soon. "Your Grace, I need you to sign and issue a few documents regarding Lady Cersei Lannister. In the small council meeting today, I plan to inform the councillors about her arrest and perhaps even the trial."

The king yawned and nodded. "Shocking isn't it?" he remarked. "Lord Tywin's golden twins fucking each other? He would not be happy to hear that."

* * *

Stannis glowered as each councillor slowly took their seats around the table in the council chamber. Despite the king planning to remove some of the advisors in the small council, the Fat Flower of Highgarden irritatingly showed up with Lord Redwyne, talking loudly in a booming voice.

"My lord Hand," said Lord Tyrell, sitting down beside Stannis. "What the Stark boy did was treasonable do you not agree? I for one think that Lord Stark doesn't deserve the honour of being Master of Laws."

"You would rather Ser Kevan?"

"Ser Kevan is Master of Laws my lord Hand, a good position for a Lannister. As I am to be the future good-father of Princess Lyanna, don't you think it is wiser if I am given an official place in the small council? People will think it most unfair if their beloved princess's good-father is merely a…a advisor!" His chair whined as he moved closer to Stannis, much to Stannis's chagrin. Lord Mace's eyes shone as he whispered, "The Reach will be your House's staunchest ally, lord Hand. Oh it'll be the most stalwart with Paxter as Master of Ships and myself as your Master of Laws…and the marriage of Willas and Princess Lyanna of course, with Harrenhal a part of the princess's dowry."

"What?" said Stannis, taken back. Harrenhal and its rich, fertile lands in Tyrell hands? A somewhat unpleasant thought crossed his mind. What if the king – very drunk thanks to the Arbor gold gifted by Renly – _agreed_ to hand Harrenhal to the Tyrells as Princess Lyanna's dowry? The king never mentioned it, but upon more than one occasion he would announce sudden plans.

Lord Tyrell nodded vigorously. "The Whents are gone and Princess Lyanna's a claimant through her mother the queen."

Stannis gave him a long look before turning to the other councillors. Varys the Spider was chatting cordially to Ser Kevan Lannister, rubbing his white hands as he spoke; Grand Maester Pycelle, seated beside Lord Davos, snoozed as he did at the beginning of every small council meeting; Ser Barristan Selmy sat silently like Lord Stark, both of them waiting for the meeting to commence; and the Master of Ships Lord Redwyne, resumed his earlier conversation with Lord Tyrell.

"We are facing two inheritance crises," announced Stannis. "Both House Rosby and House Whent have ended in their individual male lines and there are a good number of claimants for Rosby and Harrenhal."

"What of the wildling matter lord Hand?" asked Lord Stark.

Stannis frowned at him. "His Grace had already had ravens sent to all the lords. We will discuss the wildling matter later Lord Stark."

Lord Tyrell coughed. "Lord Hand, my good-father Lord Leyton Hightower had married a Rosby thus he has a good claim to Rosby and the Princess Lyanna has a good amount of Whent blood in her through the queen."

"Had either the late Lady Whent or Lord Rosby left a will naming an heir from one of the claimants?" inquired Lord Stark.

Stannis shook his head. If either of them had named an heir, it would've been a good deal easier for all of them. "All of Lady Shella Whent's children are dead, her husband and cousin is dead, her two uncles are dead, her cousin Ser Walton also dead as is his sister Lady Minisa Tully, the queen's mother. However, Lady Minisa left surviving offspring with her husband the late Lord Hoster Tully."

"Harrenhal can be given to Prince Ormund when he is of age," suggested Varys, smiling mysteriously for some odd reason. "He has Whent blood in his veins. The Targaryens oft gave Summerhall to younger sons; Harrenhal can be bestowed to younger princes of House Baratheon."

Lord Tyrell bristled, "Lord Varys! It would be better as Princess-"

"Harrenhal will not be given as a dowry for any princess," interrupted Stannis, tired of the Fat Flower's blusters. "With all the Whents dead, Harrenhal's heirs lie in the Tullys. In any normal succession, it would be the Lord of Riverrun, as only son of Lady Minisa, who'll inherit Harrenhal. He has the strongest claim to Whent inheritance and Harrenhal is in the Riverlands after all. It will be best to give him control of Harrenhal. He will most likely give it to one of his younger sons to start a cadet branch." He looked around expectedly.

Lord Stark was nodding, as was Ser Kevan. The Grand Maester was still asleep and Varys remained smiling and nodding. Only Lord Tyrell wasn't pleased, but he was a mere advisor, not a councillor.

"The matter of Harrenhal is done," decreed Stannis, scrawling it down. Usually it was Grand Maester Pycelle's duty to write during council meetings, but as days, weeks, months and years passed, he seemed to sleep more than write or talk. It'll not be long before the small council received a new grand maester.

"What of Rosby?" inquired Lord Redwyne.

"Perhaps a matter for another day?" murmured the Spider.

Stannis grinded his teeth. The small council had lingered on the Rosby matter more than necessary. "Why is that?"

"Surely _you_ my lord Hand have more important news to share."

Every pair of eyes in the room swivelled over to Stannis. Even Grand Maester Pycelle – finally awake – stared at him sleepily.

"Lord Hand?" prompted Davos.

"My wife committed adultery," said Stannis reluctantly. He intended to inform the small council, but did not expect to be pushed by Lord Varys. "She committed adultery and claimed her two bastards as my own, when the truth was that both of them – Myrcella and Tommen – are fathered by Lady Cersei's own brother Ser Jaime Lannister." The reactions were as Stannis anticipated. Lords Redwyne and Tyrell looked utterly revolted, Lord Stark's serious expression shattered into one of horror and Ser Kevan covered his face with his hands, ashamed.

" _Incest?_ " croaked the Grand Maester, now wide awake. " _Incest?_ It is taboo! The participators of such a crime must be punished!"

"You must be mistaken Lord Hand," muttered Ser Kevan.

"I'm not mistaken," said Stannis icily. He proceeded to tell them what he'd told the king and by the end of it, the Reach lords were murmuring to each other. The grand maester was spluttering to himself, spittle flying out.

"What will you do with Lady Cersei?" said Lord Stark quietly.

Before Stannis could reply, the door opened and a golden-haired boy attired in Lannister colours entered. "My lords," he said politely. "I've been sent here to tell you that Lord Tywin of House Lannister, the Lord of Casterly Rock, the Shield of Lannisport and Warden of the West, has arrived."

* * *

 **When I'm plotting the chapters, I always forget about the Whent and Rosby inheritance crises so I decided to solve the Whent inheritance in this chapter. I actually enjoy writing about Mace Tyrell and his blustering and foolishness. Next chapter is the northern chapter and you can still suggest whose POV it can be in. I am keeping count of the suggested POVs and right now a Daenerys POV is in the lead.**

 **BigStevie, I apologise for not uploading the oneshot I promised you. I'm still writing it and hopefully I'll have it uploaded on Saturday night (14.01.17). Thank you for your patience :)**


	78. Luwin II

By the time Luwin received a letter from Lord and Lady Stark stating that they had arrived at King's Landing, the majority of the guest chambers – even the ones furthest away from the Great Hall – had been occupied by visiting lords. When he first arrived at Winterfell to replace Maester Walys, Luwin had carefully read the notes and scrolls written by his many predecessors. One of them, Maester Kennet, had written thoroughly that the last time the northern lords gathered together in Winterfell was witness the marriage of Lord Cregan Stark and the princess that'd been promised to him in the Pact of Ice and Fire. Maester Kennet wrote that Lord Cregan returned from the south with a Blackwood bride – Lady Alysanne – to the disappointment of many.

Luwin highly doubted all the northern lords were called here to witness Robb Stark's marriage to Princess Lyanna Baratheon. Luwin was quite aware that King Robert had insisted for the wedding to be held in King's Landing. Afterwards, the married pair were to make a progress through the North and visit every lord. No. There was something else happening at Winterfell…right under his nose.

Shaking his head, Luwin dipped his quill into the inkpot.

 _Lord Stark_ , he wrote slowly, his quill nib scratching the parchment. _All's well at Winterfell. Everyone's doing their part to help the men of the Night's Watch in their war against the wildlings. Robb had ensured that all usable scraps of material and articles of clothing are sent to Castle Black for distribution as well as steel. My lord, my concern with dispensing weapons to black brothers is chiefly to do with the –_ he paused. What was the politest way in expressing concern that wildlings might try and strip the dead soldiers and black brothers of steel weapons. It would be most disastrous if that occurs in a battle won by the wildlings.

Luwin was still frowning when the door opened and a nervous Robb appeared, wringing his hands in a peculiar way. "Robb," said Luwin, rising from his seat. He hurriedly moved the stack of books from the chair opposite him and gestured for the young acting Lord of Winterfell to sit. "How may I help you, Robb?"

"The lords will be gathering in the Great Hall tomorrow morning."

The frown remained as Luwin quickly studied Robb. He didn't look sickly ill in the slightest, but he was paler than usual. Luwin placed that to stress and nerves. It was quite normal for a boy or a young man to be anxious when facing a cluster of lords twice or even thrice his age. Perfectly normal. "You should be asleep then my lord," said Luwin quietly. "The lords will not like to be kept waiting and Lords Karstark and Umber have been here for at least a month. They will be quite keen to return to their holdfasts." Probably to kill wildlings too as both their keeps and lands were often raided by wildlings.

"I cannot sleep, Maester."

"Would you like me to brew you a sleeping draught?"

Robb shook his head. "No, no. It is something else. I have done something that will...greatly upset the lords."

"Do you wish to discuss it with me Robb?"

Robb hesitated. Luwin watched him bite his lip. _He is still a boy inside,_ he could not help think. "Whatever you tell me will not leave this room," Luwin assured in his kindly voice. "Is it of the utmost importance?"

"The lords will learn about it eventually," Robb muttered more to himself than to the patiently waiting maester. Robb looked at him. "Do you know why my lord father and lady mother went to King's Landing?" he asked.

Luwin shook his head.

"They left to deal with the chaos I created." Within the next quarter of an hour, Luwin listened as Robb poured out the truth. Luwin's heart sank by the time that Robb had finished. By the Seven…Luwin's mind was as blank as a roll of paper. It was no wonder Robb was nervous, Arya angry, Jon cold and Daenerys constantly hiding in her chambers, claiming to be ill.

"How did Arya discover the truth?" asked Luwin.

"She overheard me and Dany talking about it," said Robb miserably. "We tried to explain it to her, but she ran off. Lyarra is furious too. She said what we'd done was…was horrible. We ruined everything. Why would she say that? How on earth could she say that? She is my sister! She should be happy for me!"

"Perhaps Lady Lyarra has a reason not to be happy for you."

Robb stared at him. "She is my sister…" he said feebly. "Maester Luwin, there's so much I regret, but marrying Daenerys is not one of them. Upsetting two of my sisters though, is. What if I offend the lords tomorrow morning too?"

"Lords of the North are stronger than southron lords, but what you have done would greatly upset them. I will not lie to you, Robb. You know I never lie to you, your siblings or your parents. Marrying your lord father's ward while affianced is not a wise decision, Robb. If she was say the daughter of a northern lord, that will anger the king, but it wouldn't have caused as much damage as your marriage to Lady Daenerys Sand had done."

"I know, Maester. Is there a way I can break the news without offending them? I am here for advice."

Luwin sighed. "You will not like it," he warned.

Robb brightened up. "What is it, Maester?"

"One way is to resign your position as heir." He paused as Robb stared at him, shocked. "It is honourable and can be accepted by the lords. Resign your place as heir to Bran and perhaps your lord father will grant you a keep. The lords will be satisfied, especially with Bran married to a lady of the North. They won't be at all worried about a natural daughter becoming Lady of Winterfell either."

"Is there…another way, Maester?"

"Robb, do you not remember what I'd taught you? Everything has a price. You chose to break your betrothal and marry a bastard girl. You must pay the price. It is either facing the indignation and rage of the lords or give up your place as heir. It is your choice, Robb."

Robb bit his lip again. "Father appointed me acting lord in his stead…"

"You would rather face the anger of your father's bannermen?" Luwin couldn't help the tone of disapproval appearing in his voice. "Robb, I must ask, are you at all aware of the damage you had done?"

"Of course I am aware of it!" Robb seemed shocked and a little hurt.

"Forgive me for my bluntness Robb, but you do not seem aware of it," Maester Luwin said as gently as he could. "Knowing the consequences, you still decided to marry Daenerys Sand and you refuse to relinquish your position as heir. You had chosen love over politics and that is the road to disaster. Robb, Lord Stark said to me that you and the princess were getting along well. What happened? When the two of you were to wed, you would've been happy."

"I love Dany," said Robb simply, his eyes glowing with affection. "Have you not loved someone you would do anything for her?"

 _Once._ "Would you do anything for Daenerys, Robb? Would you not rather have peace than war? The best way is to relinquish your place to Bran. Tomorrow, tell the lords you have married Daenerys Sand, and in doing so, you'll renounce your position as heir apparent. No heir or great lord had married a bastard before, and once all the lords hear about it, they will be alarmed." Luwin leant forward. Robb was listening intently now. "Think about it, Robb. You are the son of _Lord Eddard Stark_ , who's considered one of the most honourable lords in Westeros. If you can avoid a harsh punishment for marrying an illegitimate girl, what do you think the lords will think and do? If you can get away with marrying a bastard, they can too. It will upset the balance of the Seven Kingdoms Robb."

Robb paled.

"You will not be the first to renounce your place in a line of succession," Luwin went on. "Many heirs have done it before. There's no shame in relinquishing your place as heir. Besides, Lord Stark may give you a keep and lands."

"Do you truly believe it will keep peace in the North if I do?"

Luwin nodded solemnly. "Peace is desired more than war. Think about it Robb. You still have until dawn. It is up to you if you wish to use my advice or not. Don't forget to sleep though. You'll need your strength tomorrow." He offered Robb an encouraging smile and watched him leave. Once Robb left, Luwin sighed. A young man in love…he shook his head. _I should've expected it_ , he thought, rifling through a collection of papers in front of him. _I should've guessed that all this secrecy in the castle was to do with Robb falling in love._

He stifled a tired yawn. It was getting late and he had quite a busy schedule set for tomorrow from dawn to dusk. It was time to rest.

When Luwin rose from his bed and peered out the window, he noticed the sky was covered with clusters of dark grey clouds. Another dreary day. Luwin wasn't surprised if the next couple of days were cloudy and rainy too. Like the Starks oft said, winter is coming.

 _I'll ensure Robb speaks to Vayon Poole tonight_ , decided Luwin as he shuffled to down the stairs and across the courtyard to the Great Hall for breakfast. _The food stores will need to be seen to; the grain stores too_. A tinge of unease jabbed him in the gut. Winter was truly on its way and if Robb did renounce his position as heir, a mountain of burdens would drop down upon young Bran's shoulders. Bran was only eleven and enjoying his life at court. Luwin heard he was an excellent squire – though he should technically be a page for a few more years – and he was quite close to Prince Ormund.

 _Robb has no choice_ , Luwin tried to assure himself. With only House Bolton as a strong ally – only due to Lyarra's betrothal to Domeric – Robb had no alternative. He must renounce his position or the North will no longer be united. It was in the interest of Winterfell and the North for Robb to give up his place. As the maester of Winterfell, it was Luwin's duty to serve Winterfell. Though Luwin hated giving Robb the advice to relinquish his claim to Winterfell, it was best for Winterfell. _It is the best for Winterfell_ , Luwin silently repeated to himself.

* * *

Entering the warm and cosy Great Hall, Luwin sat down near the sleepy Septa Mordane who had the unfortunate job of keeping a close eye on Arthur and little Rickon, the latter asleep with a loaf of bread as a pillow. Young Arthur was on the brink of falling asleep too.

"Why don't you return to your rooms, Septa?" said Luwin quietly. "I can keep a close eye on the boys for you." His words seemed to have jolted Septa Mordane a little more awake than before.

"Lord and Lady Stark placed the boys in my care," said the septa tentatively as she tried to suppress a yawn.

"And in mine Septa."

Septa Mordane hesitated. "Thank you Maester," she said, standing up. "Ensure the boys do not run off. Arthur has a habit of it and Rickon follows him. Last time they ran out of the Great Hall during breakfast, they came back late covered from head to toe in mud." She shuddered and left.

Luwin smiled and moved closer to Arthur and Rickon. "Shall we play a game?" he said to them. Arthur tilted his head and looked at him, his purple eyes shining with interest and curiosity. "Is it not too early, Maester?" he asked. Rickon on the other hand, opened an eye wearily.

"Can I go back to sleep now, please?" said Rickon, rubbing his brown eyes, his head not leaving the loaf-of-bread-pillow.

"It is always good to rise early, Rickon."

Rickon made a face. "I don't like it." Luwin chuckled and slathered a generous portion of well-churned yellow butter on a piece of bread he carefully sliced from another loaf of bread that was not used as a pillow. "What'll you do when you are lord of a keep?" he challenged gently. "Stay in bed all day?"

Rickon thought for a moment and then nodded with a cheeky grin. Arthur and Luwin both laughed. As Luwin ate his bread, he glanced around and saw more of the northern lords sitting down, greeting each other, some lords reaching out for a bit of breakfast. The high table was unusually empty. To be frank, it was utterly vacant with the exception of Robb who sat in the middle, grim-faced.

By the time Luwin was halfway through his slice of bread, an unusually happy Lord Karstark slid onto the seat opposite Arthur and Rickon. "Maester Luwin," he greeted after saying good morning to the boys. "You are well I hope?"

"Lord Karstark." Luwin dipped his head respectfully. "I'm quite well. You look to be in good spirits yourself my lord."

Lord Karstark beamed.

"Maester, can we play the game now?" implored Arthur.

"Of course." Luwin smiled at him. He looked around the Great Hall. Most of the lords were present; a few seemed to be late risers. Luwin drew out a folded piece of parchment from one of his many pockets, unfolded it and showed it to Arthur. Lord Karstark glanced at it with interest. Scattered on the page were illustrations – coloured – of sigils of all the Northern houses. Luwin allowed Arthur to look at them for a moment and then he pulled the paper away.

"There are many lords in this room," said Luwin, as Lord Karstark chuckled as he seemed to realise what the 'game' was. "I am looking for…Lord Bolton."

Arthur giggled and instantly pointed at the silent Lord Roose Bolton, who was seated at the other trestle table close to the dais.

"How do you know that is Lord Bolton?" tested Luwin.

"His cloak," said Arthur promptly. "It is pink with red drops on it. It's closest to House Bolton's sigil – only missing the red flayed man."

"Very good Arthur. I am now looking for…Lord…Manderly."

"There." Arthur pointed to the jovial Lord Wyman Manderly who was chatting happily to who Luwin recognised as old Lord Locke's son and heir. "The trident's like the one the merman holds in the Manderly sigil…and Lord Manderly is fat."

Lord Karstark choked and mulled ale sprayed from his mouth. Arthur grinned at him. "Arthur," said Luwin sternly. "You cannot be rude to your father's lords – especially with the lord present. You also shouldn't say such words with another lord so close either. Understand?" His grey eyes didn't leave Arthur's purple eyes until Arthur nodded sheepishly. "Good," said Luwin calmly. "I think we have time for one more. I am looking for…Lord Glover."

"Lords and ladies!" Robb stood up, much paler than usual. The murmuring and chatter died down almost at once and the northern lords and ladies looked up at him. Luwin took the opportunity to look around discreetly. Jon Snow brooded by himself near the doors of the Great Hall, watching bits of porridge slide slothfully from his spoon into his bowl; Lyarra sat beside her betrothed and opposite Lord Bolton, staring angrily at Robb; Theon gazed lustfully at a few servant girls whilst he finished off his breakfast of three well-fried, plump sausages dripping with fat and a flagon of ale; and Daenerys, pale with anxiety, chose to sit a couple of seats away from Arthur and Rickon.

Luwin quietly shushed Arthur as he pointed to Lord Glover. "We will resume a later time," Luwin promised softly, gently prodding Rickon awake. "Now we need to listen to your lord brother speak." He fervently hoped Robb would do the right thing. Renouncing one's claim would never be easy.

"My lords and ladies, I thank you all for answering my calls and coming here at once," said Robb clearly. He had a strong voice, good for the battlefield. _Robb still can be a great commander and soldier._ "As you now know, wildlings are attacking. Mostly against the sworn brothers of the Night's Watch, but they will not hesitate to invade northern lands too. We also cannot allow the men of the Night's Watch to battle the wildlings alone. As you all know, my father had already sent some of his own men to aid the sworn brothers as have Lords Karstark and Umber." Robb paused and nodded at the two respective lords. "My uncle First Ranger Stark had gone south to request more men – soldiers in fact – and that will take time. I have called you hear to inform you that we will all send men to help." He looked a little more nervous now. "The Night's Watch needs us."

Some of the lords nodded, others more reluctant.

"The Night's Watch contains criminals," spoke Lord Manderly. "Say we aid and give them more men and supplies, how will it guarantee victory?"

"The Night's Watch consists of good men as well as criminals, Lord Manderly," said Robb, looking at Lord Manderly. "Many of them were and are from northern families like yours." He turned to Lord Locke's heir. "Ser Donnel Locke, I believe I spoke to one of your uncles, Ser Mallador, yes? He is a good man. Many members of our families are part of the Night's Watch, fighting against the wildlings. All the sworn brothers of the Night's Watch – criminals, smallfolk, bastards and nobles – are doing their duty: defending the Seven Kingdoms against those that lie beyond the Wall. Not all criminals are criminals Lord Manderly. Perhaps some are clever at strategy. Strategy is needed to win against the wildlings."

Lord Manderly nodded, a smile on his face. _It is as if Robb answered a question correctly_ , thought Luwin approvingly as the other lords nodded agreeably.

"There is also…another matter." Luwin frowned slightly. Robb looked nervous and…frightened? Nervousness was expected, but fright? It would be intimidating, speaking in front of such a large crowd of lords though…

Luwin glanced around and spotted Arya skulking near the doors, glowering at Robb with pure anger. _Why would Arya be furious at Robb?_ Luwin wondered, his brows furrowing in deep thought. _Robb doesn't have the authority to cancel all of her water dancing lessons – or does he?_ Luwin was certain Robb wouldn't hurt his sister in depriving her of recreational activities she enjoyed.

"I have married Lady Daenerys Sand," announced Robb suddenly.

 _Crash!_

The cup in Lord Umber's hand slipped through his fingers and fell to the floor, liquid splattering on his shoes. The quiet murmurs rose to a buzz of mutterings – unhappy and angry mutterings.

"I married Daenerys Sand, my father's ward," Robb said again. The majority of eyes swivelled and stared at Daenerys who attempted to ignore them. "One night after too much to drink, I slept with her." His cheeks tinged with pink. "It was not the wisest move on my part, and to protect her honour, I married her."

"Is that why Lord Stark gone south?" growled Lord Umber, "to save your arse, Robb Stark?" The cups and plates shook as he angrily hit the table with his fist. "I fucked many women in my life, and did I marry any of them? _NO_."

"A Dornish bastard?" said Lord Karstark, disgusted. His earlier cheerful mood had been fully extinguished. "You choose to wed a Dornish bastard to protect her honour instead of marrying _Princess_ Lyanna Baratheon or a good Northern girl? I am astonished, Robb Stark! Surely Lord Stark would not have agreed to it!" Other lords and ladies murmured in assent, a couple even shooting Daenerys nasty and hateful looks similar to the one Arya gave Robb earlier.

"There is more news," said Robb loudly. Luwin's stomach lurched. More awful news? What had the Starks done to earn such terrible luck from the old gods and new? "I received a raven from Lord Stark this morning."

"Is he to disinherit you my lord?" asked Lord Umber sarcastically. A low growl drew Luwin's attention to the platform again. Quietly prowling around the legs of the high table was Robb's direwolf, Grey Wind. Luwin had forgotten that some of the direwolves liked following their masters and mistresses into the Great Hall. _A mistake to forget the direwolves_.

Robb glowered at Lord Umber. "To compensate Princess Lyanna's jilting, Lord Stark is to be Master of Laws," he said heavily, "and Lady Stark is to be part of the queen's entourage. Moreover, the king has…requested my sister Lady Arya to be sent to King's Landing where she'll have an honoured place at court." The angry mutterings rose. No wonder Arya was so furious. She never liked the south. "And my other sister Lady Lyarra as well," Robb went on unwillingly. Luwin saw Lord Bolton frown. "Furthermore, the king has announced that…that to cement House Stark and House Baratheon, there will be a new Baratheon-Stark marriage. Lady Lyarra is set to wed Prince Orys Baratheon." Stunned silence.

Every eye in the Great Hall was now on Lord Bolton. Luwin's usually firm and steady hands trembled. Arthur tugged at his sleeve. "Lyarra's to marry Domeric," he whispered, bewildered.

Frozen, Maester Luwin – and everybody else – watched as Lord Bolton slowly stood up, his expression impassive, and stride out the Great Hall without uttering a single word.

* * *

 **Daenerys had the highest votes for this chapter's POV, but when I started writing the chapter, I found it easier to write it in Luwin's POV.**

 **I'm glad you liked 'Sun and Snow' BigStevie :D I actually did find it enjoyable to write, especially the start of it.**

 **Clary Sage, I'm so sorry I haven't written your Jaime/Lyanna oneshot yet! I promise to write it - or start it more like - tomorrow. Just a few questions if you don't mind. On a scale from 1 to 10, how much in love do you want them to be? 1 being just gazing lovingly at each other to 10 being loving each other so much they are willing to risk it all and cheat in their marriages. Do you also want Jaime to be married and to whom OR do you want him to remain as a knight of the Kingsguard? And is there a specific period in their lives you want me to set it in? If there's anything else at all about the oneshot you want, just let me know :)**

 **Spectre4Hire, you can set the prompt in as much detail as you want :) And yes, please message it to me when you think of a prompt :D**


	79. Roose II

A light shower of rain sprinkled down on Roose as he strode out the Great Hall and towards the Guest House. As he crossed the courtyard, his fingers curled into fists. The corner of his mouth twitched in anger.

 _He_ , Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, had been humiliated greatly. By Robb Stark, the _honourable_ Lord Eddard Stark, by all of them damned Starks! He took a deep breath. Never had Roose been so furious before – he had no reason to be. It must've been a mistake, Lord Stark's letter. Yes, it was a mistake. Lord Ned Stark would never have consented to break the Lady Lyarra's betrothal to Domeric for anyone – not even the king. By the old gods and new, their betrothal had been set in stone since before Lady Lyarra was even born! All those years ago when Roose received Lord Stark's letter regarding Domeric's fostering at Winterfell, he knew at once that Lord Stark wanted a more permanent peace between their Houses. It wasn't hard to suspect that at the end of Domeric's fostering, he would return to the Dreadfort with a Stark bride at his side.

 _I will not forget this slight_. Thanks to Robb's utter stupidity, Roose had lost his future Stark good-daughter and Domeric his prospective bride. If it was Domeric who had married a bastard girl, Roose would've slowly flayed the girl, leaving his son a widower. Afterwards Domeric would marry the intended girl and all would be as planned. Alas, Lord Stark didn't have the heart for flaying…

Roose entered his chambers, dismissing his servant with a wave of his hand. It was still early in the morning and a perfect time to return to the Dreadfort. Roose had no desire to leave…yet.

All the northern lords were here at Winterfell – what better time than to forge a new alliance or two? _A pity I have only the one son_ , thought Roose, disgruntled. _I should've remarried a few months after Bethany's death._ It was not too late though. He wasn't old and House Bolton was one of the most ancient and noble Houses in the North. Instead of waiting for grandchildren to use as pawns, he could father a son or two, or even a daughter. Roose's choice of wife returned to Jonelle Cerwyn, Lord Medger Cerwyn's daughter. It wasn't the first time Roose considered Jonelle Cerwyn as wife – the third or fourth actually.

There were many benefits in marrying Lady Jonelle. For one, the Cerwyns live only half a day's ride from Winterfell. Very useful if the highly unlike chance of an uprising was to occur. Lady Jonelle's late mother – Lord Cerwyn's first wife – was a Tallhart and a relationship with the Tallharts, albeit a distance one, was always valuable. It was about time House Bolton started hunting for fresh allies. Roose's first wife was a Flint; his mother also a Flint; his grandmother a Hornwood; and a great grandmother no doubt, a Flint. Perhaps she was a Harclay.

No matter, no matter. Whatever the case, House Bolton seriously needed a few, new allies and House Cerwyn was a good start.

Roose's heart hardened with annoyance. Now he had to find Domeric another suitable bride. What a nuisance! Domeric was twenty years old! He should've had a son or two already! He would've if Lady Lyarra flowered earlier. His mood only soured when he thought of all the time Domeric wasted fostering at Winterfell. It was an honour, but what use was it? Before Lord Stark sent the raven, Roose had considered having Domeric fostered somewhere in the Vale after a few years as a page in Lady Dustin's household, perhaps with the Redforts. Roose had met Lord Horton Redfort a few times during the king's rebellion and thought him quite the ruthless fighter. He was an experienced soldier and slaughtered many Targaryen loyalists without mercy. _Maybe I should have sent Domeric to squire for him_.

"Lord Bolton." Roose glanced at the door and dipped his head curtly as he saw his former good-sister Lady Dustin linger there. "Lady Dustin," he greeted.

"A shock is it not?" Lady Dustin settled herself down on the spare chair. "Lord Stark breaking Domeric's betrothal to his daughter. The _honourable_ Lord Stark."

"Are you here to gloat, my lady? It is unlike you."

"Oh, to gloat yes. Not to gloat at you though my lord. You're my good-brother-"

" _Former_ good-brother Lady Dustin."

Lady Dustin rolled her eyes. " _Former_ good-brother then, my lord. Regardless, I still consider you family, Lord Bolton."

How kind of you Lady Dustin. "What do you want my lady?"

"How many men did you send to aid the Night's Watch my lord?"

Roose darkened. "More than I should've. When I received Lord Stark's raven, I sent men straight to Castle Black. A sign of loyalty to Lord Stark."

"A mistake, Lord Bolton. I didn't send more than I needed to. I did warn you all those years ago not to trust the Starks, my lord. Do you remember? I said it was a mistake to trust Lord Stark's offer of fostering Domeric at Winterfell. At that time, you thought it would lead to a Stark-Bolton marriage. The _first_ of hopefully many. I told you it was too good to be true. Even when Domeric was affianced to Lyarra Stark, I did not believe it. A betrothal was to trick you into loyalty, naught more. I hope you believe me now."

Roose snorted. "Your hatred towards the Starks is marred by your own past. I know you were infatuated by Lord Stark's late brother Brandon when you were a young woman. You even gave him your maidenhead." His thin lips curved into an eerie, ghostly smile. Lady Dustin's cheeks tinged with pink. "Did you truly think a wild man like Brandon Stark would marry you?"

"He would have if it was not for those grey rats!" spat Lady Dustin. "He had no desire to marry Catelyn Tully, Lord Bolton!"

"And Lady Catelyn is queen." _And you are a widow_. "And Lady Lyarra Stark will be the future queen."

"Do you truly think the _honourable_ Lord Stark would keep Lyarra betrothed to Domeric when he had the chance to have her married to the crown prince? Mark my words, Lord Bolton. Lord Stark is no different to all those lords of the south. It may be hard to believe, but with the chance for his daughter to be the next queen, even the honourable Lord Stark cannot resist."

"His southron wife is to blame for this."

" _Both_ of them, Lord Bolton. Both are to blame. I blame all the Starks."

"Even Lady Lyarra, Lady Arya, Bran, Arthur, Lady Gwenysse and Rickon? They have done naught in this. I watched Lady Lyarra interact with Domeric numerous times and I cannot imagine her playing a part in attaining queenship. She had not spoken to Robb in days. I suspect she had been aware of his marriage for days – I think even weeks – but was ordered to remain silent."

"I thought Lady Lyarra was devoted to Domeric."

"Devoted, but still a Stark. Her loyalties and devotion would be to House Stark till the day Domeric cloaks her. Obviously that will not happen now."

"The Umbers and Karstarks are displeased with the Starks too. After you left, I heard the Greatjon Umber bellowing that House Umber will never swear fealty to Robb or any of his descendants sired from his baseborn wife."

"Greatjon Umber never fears speaking his mind." Roose tapped a couple of his fingers on the table. "He has a daughter doesn't he? An unmarried one? His elder daughter is married to Lord Karstark's heir from what I remember. The Greatjon Umber's younger daughter is a woman too. There'll be no waiting period."

"Why not a Karstark good-daughter?"

"Lady Alys Karstark is betrothed to Daryn Hornwood. I am not the type of man who breaks another's betrothal for my own benefit."

"I see."

"I will also take a new wife, Lady Jonelle Cerwyn perhaps. House Bolton needs new allies. The Starks have shown their true colours; liars, all of them."

Lady Dustin smiled. "You have House Dustin's support, my lord Bolton. Maybe even House Ryswell's. My late father was always fond of Domeric as are my three brothers. I can assure you that my brother Roger, now Lord of the Rills, wishes to remain firm allies with House Bolton."

Roose nodded expressionlessly. "I too hope our Houses will remain allies for a good number of years in the future."

* * *

Lunch was a dreary and dismal affair. Some of the lords – mostly the mountain clans – had left in the morning in a huff, offended. The Flints both left three hours earlier as did Lords Hornwood, Karstark and Lord Locke's heir. Surprisingly Lord Umber remained, though he glowered more. The only jolly face in the stream of a dozen or more northerners belonged to Lord Wyman Manderly. Why he was in a cheerful mood remained a mystery.

Roose glanced at Domeric, who picked listlessly at his venison stew. He looked outright miserable. Roose never remembered a time when Domeric was so upset. Not even when Lady Bethany died. "Where's Lady Lyarra?" Roose asked softly. "I thought she would dine with you today."

Domeric shook his head. "She is in her chambers."

"Weeping I suppose?"

Domeric's lips tightened. " _Confined_ , according to Theon. Apparently Arya tried to convince Meera to take her to Greywater Watch or somewhere else instead of going to King's Landing. Robb found out and had her confined in her rooms. He'd decided to do the same with Lyarra. He thought she might elope with me to avoid going south and marrying the crown prince. Only a desperate man would confine those he love to save his own hide." His fingers tightened around his spoon. "You told me that Father." Roose nodded. "Theon hinted that Arya and Lyarra will stay in their chambers till they are sent south," said Domeric bitterly.

"A harsh move."

Before Domeric could respond, Roose found Lord Umber sitting beside him. "I heard you lost your betrothed," Lord Umber said to Domeric sympathetically. "It is a shame. Lady Lyarra's a beautiful young woman."

"Beauty isn't everything my lord Umber," muttered Domeric. Roose nodded at Lord Umber. "I'm astonished you are still here my lord," Roose murmured. "After what happened in the morning, I thought you would be gone by now."

The Greatjon grunted and drained his cup of ale. "Aye," he agreed. "I would've left at once if Lord Stark had not put me in charge of the wildling situation before he departed." His brown eyes travelled to the high table and darkened. At Robb's side was the Dornish bastard. Lady Daenerys _Stark_ now. Though she was raised a northerner, Roose never saw her anything but a bastard of House Dayne. "Umber girls had sat there in the past," grumbled Lord Umber, "as well as other nobles. It is wrong to allow a bastard girl to sit there. I fucked bastards but never married a bastard. No Umber had married a bastard."

Roose nodded slightly. "A disgrace," he said softly. "An utter disgrace."

"Your son is in need of a new bride, eh Lord Bolton? I've been thinking – I have an unmarried daughter and you have a son. They're both around the same age as well." A beam spread on Lord Umber's ruddy face. "A good match don't you think Lord Bolton? Our lands are close" He leant down and lowered his voice "and with House Karstark bound to mine through marriage, those Starks will learn that the North will not sit idly by and obey orders while they are off in the south wedding bastards and licking the southron king's boots."

"Lady Lyarra will be queen. You are not pleased a northerner will be crowned queen consort when the time comes?"

"I am not pleased Robb Stark married a bastard and got away with it."

"No one but Robb is at that, Lord Umber."

Lord Umber grunted in agreement. "So what do you say, Lord Bolton? Uniting our Houses? You won't have to wait more than a month. If you agree, I can send a raven to my son Jon and he will have Arrana sent to the Dreadfort. She is a sweet girl, my Arrana." He looked at Domeric who didn't seem very interested. "She is a beauty, my daughter," Lord Umber promised. "You will like her, Domeric. She can play the flute and sings like a lark. When Arrana was ten, she spent a few months at White Harbour. My wife's idea," he added as he saw Roose arch an eyebrow. "I usually don't send my children to White Harbour."

"She sings like a lark," mused Roose quietly. When he was a boy, the Dreadfort was often silent. There were no singers; screamers certainly. "What do you think, Domeric?" He smiled icily as Domeric did not respond. Even if Domeric despised, loathed, hated the idea of marrying an Umber girl, he would not dare disobey his orders. The Starks have shown their true colours as wild, liars and oathbreakers, and there would be no Stark bride for Domeric. An Umber bride must do.

"I look forward to having Lady Arrana as my good-daughter," said Roose with a small, polite smile. Lord Umber grinned at him. Roose glanced at the dais. Robb and his baseborn wife were both looking at him and Lord Greatjon Umber. A cold smile slowly augmented on Roose's pale face. He raised his cup of hippocras. "To a _prosperous_ union between Houses Bolton and Umber." He clinked goblets with Lord Umber, a little bit of wine splashing from Lord Umber's cup and onto one of his hands. Roose and his new ally drank deeply.

"You will stay a few days more, Lord Bolton?" Lord Umber inquired.

Roose shook his head. "I cannot forget the insult, Lord Umber. I'll be returning to the Dreadfort tomorrow morning."

Lord Umber nodded understandingly. He stood up. "I have letters to write," he muttered. "Forgive me for my ah, abrupt leave Lord Bolton. Domeric." He nodded at Roose and Domeric. Roose tilted his head and nodded slowly.

"You will leave for the Dreadfort tomorrow?" questioned Domeric.

"Yes. You will stay here until I send you a raven."

"Why? I thought the Starks are no longer our allies."

"Misery does not suit you, Domeric. You have lived here for years, training and eating with Robb Stark, Jon Snow, Theon Greyjoy and other Starks. The Starks all consider you family. You would be if Lady Lyarra was still your betrothed…"

"You want me to spy on them." Domeric's tone was heavy and resigned.

Roose frowned. What use was a subdued son whose mind was captured by the stream of memories of his lost betrothed playing over and over again? "Your own presence here will unsettle the Starks," he said quietly. "Especially Robb. Stay for a few more days, perhaps a week. Wait for my raven. You don't need to do a thing, Domeric. Sitting and watching the Starks will disturb them already. Look at Robb and his bastard wife. Go on Domeric, _look_."

Domeric lifted his head and stared almost blankly at the dais. Roose noted that Domeric's eyes met Robb's. Robb broke his gaze first. "You will not need to come back here ever again," Roose murmured. "All you must do is unnerve the Starks a little longer, and then you will come home and wed Lady Arrana Umber."

"I thought him my brother," muttered Domeric. "Robb was a brother to me."

"Brothers can betray and kill each other too. Must I retell the story of my great, great granduncle's children? A bloody story that one, Domeric."

"You told it to me before, when I was a child. Lord Rogar Bolton had two failed marriages and sired only one weak daughter. He trusted his younger brother, my great, great grandfather Redmond, with everything and even named him his heir. The night Lord Rogar named Redmond as heir, Redmond betrayed him and killed him. Well, he first flayed his niece, making Rogar watch and then he killed him in cold blood. He didn't enjoy being the Lord of the Dreadfort for long though. Rylla the Red, his sister, and widow of three husbands, went into his chambers one day and stabbed him to death. Some people said she bathed in his blood."

Roose smiled eerily. "An excellent story. It teaches you that one must never be as foolish as Lord Rogar Bolton."

"Thankfully I have no siblings to put my trust in."

Roose stood up. "I believe your time at Winterfell is almost up, Domeric. It will not be long now before I myself will teach you more about duties you'll face soon when you succeed me as Lord of the Dreadfort."

* * *

The journey back to the Dreadfort took around three days and was uneventful – as usual. Normally it would take three days or less to return home; it took quite a bit longer this time as Roose caught a thief dragging a dead deer from a part of Bolton forests. It didn't take Roose too long to hang him.

Oddly enough, Roose was in a better mood than he'd expected. Strange as he'd been humiliated at Winterfell and the trip home should be foul. _If I am furious, I'd have flayed that thief,_ Roose pondered, urging his horse to resume a canter. A trot was too slow for his taste. Much too slow.

When Roose entered the courtyard, he was surprised to see Maester Tybald at the great doors waiting for him. "Maester," said Roose, dismounting his horse. "It is astonishing, seeing you here. I didn't expect to speak to you so soon. Tonight or tomorrow morning perhaps."

"There have been strange occurrences my lord," said the nervous maester. "I'd have written but the ravens…"

"The ravens are not my concern, Maester. They are yours I believe."

"The ravens have been killed, my lord. _All of them_. Strangled! My lord, I did not know what to do!"

"All of them?"

"All of them!"

Reek was responsible for it, no doubt. _Why?_ "A raven will be arriving in a day," Roose said calmly, "perhaps two. We can use that one for a while. Meanwhile, I'll investigate all these…deaths. You will find a way to fetch more ravens. We will be stranded here without ravens. Horses can take us to many places, but what if we are still without ravens when winter strikes?"

"I will try my…my best Lord Bolton."

"No…" Roose stared at Maester Tybald coldly. "You'll ensure the Dreadfort has enough ravens for the winter. If you don't, you'll find the dungeons your new and permanent home. I'll have the Citadel send me another, more capable maester. It was said that the Citadel is littered with maesters like the dungeons and cells are full of rats. You'll find that your new home won't be as comfortable." His pale, icy eyes fell upon the bearskin pelt the maester had wrapped over his grey robes. "It won't be as warm either," he added threateningly. Giving Maester Tybald one last warning glare, Roose headed inside the castle. How inconvenient that the ravens were all strangled…

That was most certainly Reek's work.

 _But why?_

Roose dismissed the raven problem. Maester Tybald would sort it all out or he would find himself in the dungeons in a matter of seconds. Besides, Lord Umber's raven would be here soon, and Reek wouldn't be so foolish to attempt to strangle another raven with Roose himself in the castle. Frightening a cowardly, spineless maester was one thing, but trying to terrify the Lord of the Dreadfort? No. Only a mad, angry dog would be foolish enough to do that. The maddest of mad dogs too. Roose's lips tightened.

 _All mad dogs must be put down_ , contemplated Roose as he reached his solar. _It is the way of the world._ Putting Reek down wouldn't be easy – Reek unfortunately knew how to use a sword and other weapons at his disposal. _Maybe I should have had him killed when he was a squalling babe._

Roose was a man of little to no regrets, but the only regret he carried was that he was merciful enough to keep his bastard alive. He pushed open the door of his solar and was hit with the stench of blood. Roose's icy pale eyes immediately fell on the corpse lying spread-eagle on the floor in front of him.

Mydea.

Closing the door behind him, Roose stared at Mydea's body emotionlessly. Her death was inevitable; if not by his hand, it'd be by Reek's. So soon though…

Roose stepped over the body and sat down in front of his table as he would on any day. He would have the servants remove Mydea's corpse later. He dipped his quill into the inkpot. Even though all of the Dreadfort ravens were strangled, said by the maester, Roose still had letters to write.

 _Many_ letters to write.

* * *

 **This chapter was quite interesting to write. The ending was a little difficult though, had to change it a few times until I was satisfied. Chapter uploads will be slower now as family friends from China have arrived and I'll be entertaining them and showing them the sights. Furthermore, I will be starting a new job next week so less time writing sadly.**

 **Clary Sage, I'm so sorry I'm still not done with your oneshot. I haven't forgotten it. I'll try and finish it ASAP :)**


	80. Stannis III

The Great Hall's oak-and-bronze doors swung open and the herald announced in a clear voice, "Lord Tywin of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport and Warden of the West!"

Stannis impassively watched from his seat at the council table as the Old Lion of Casterly Rock walked up to the Iron Throne, his scarlet cloak billowing around him. The proud Lord Tywin had demanded a grand entrance as if he was the king instead of a subject rather than a direct meeting in the council chamber or even a private audience with the king.

Frightened gasps erupted in the sea of lords and ladies as they spotted the tall, large and intimidating Ser Gregor Clegane who stomped behind Tywin Lannister, wearing the heaviest plate armour in the Seven Kingdoms. His massive head was hidden under a plate helm with only a narrow slit for vision. Strapped to his back was a immense six foot, two handed greatsword. _Not surprising_ , thought Stannis, watching a couple of ladies at the front slowly edge away. _Out of all knights, Lord Tywin chooses Ser Gregor Clegane to guard him_. Ser Gregor's presence did bring a rather interesting reaction though.

Most of the ladies paled at the sight of Ser Gregor Clegane, some fainting; Lord Tyrell squirmed and looked away; and Prince Oberyn Martell, who'd only arrived a few hours ago, looked as if he wanted to kill – or try to kill – Ser Gregor Clegane. Prince Oberyn did have good reason, as Ser Gregor did brutally rape and murder his late sister Princess Elia.

"Lord Tywin," acknowledged the king.

"Your Grace," greeted Lord Tywin, dipping his head. Stannis frowned. Only the bold and foolish would not bow before their king.

"You called for an audience, I believe. What is it you want? If you don't mind, it is quite inconvenient. Surely you know court is in the morning every day. Thanks to you, my small council had to cut their meeting short."

Lord Tywin's greenish-golden flecked eyes flickered to Stannis. Stannis stared back expressionlessly. "I have come to discuss the Casterly Rock succession Your Grace," he said, his gaze returning to the king.

"There is naught to discuss, Lord Tywin," spoke Stannis. Lord Tywin looked at him again. "You have a son, Tyrion." He nodded at the Imp, who was also a recent arrival at court. "As you well know, Lord Tywin, your eldest son is a knight of the Kingsguard, thus he cannot inherit," Stannis went on. "Due to that, Tyrion is your heir." Knowing full well Lord Tywin hated his dwarf son, Stannis plunged on. "It's what it is, Lord Tywin. Tyrion Lannister is your heir by law – unless there's some legitimate reasons why you wish to name another heir?"

Lord Tywin's lips tightened. Clearly he hadn't planned this. "Tyrion is unfit for lordship," he said stiffly.

"Unfit for lordship," the king repeated. He looked down at Tyrion. They'd often shared stories about their favourite whores whenever they met – a rarity. "That's an odd thing to say, Lord Tywin."

Threateningly, Lord Tywin took another step forward. "I did not come all this way just to discuss Tyrion's incompetence and indolent and embarrassing habits. Correct me if I'm wrong, Your Grace, but I believe the Crown has borrowed many gold pieces from Casterly Rock. Gold that is still…unpaid."

Lords and ladies murmured uneasily. Stannis glanced at the king and gave him a small nod. For what seemed like the first time in their lives, they had agreed on a plan to deal with the proud Lord Tywin Lannister.

The king shifted on the throne and said casually. "Yes…I suppose that must be, ah, remedied, yes?"

Lord Tywin gave him a cold smile. "Indeed Your Grace. I heard that the Crown is in no position to pay their debts. Is it true Your Grace?"

"His Grace doesn't need to reveal information of that sort," said Stannis curtly.

"Of course my lord Hand. It is…wrong of me to ask. However, I do have a list of excellent solutions to remedy the situation." _This is what he wants. Lord Tywin is hungry for power as all lions are and he wants the court to witness him bullying the king and his small council into granting all of his requests._ Stannis pressed some of his fingers together as he watched the king nod thoughtfully.

"What solutions do you have in mind?" the king asked eagerly.

"I believe that we've spoken about forming closer ties between our respective Houses through my brother Ser Kevan? You have a natural son and I have a niece that is also a natural child. A good match do you not agree Your Grace?"

To be frank, the king had about over a dozen natural children. During Lord Jon Arryn's tenure as Hand of the King, he had, for some reason, kept an eye on all of the known bastards and tracked them, even convincing the king to take in two. It was questionable and only earnt the queen and the late Lord Tully's fury. Stannis had read the late Lord Arryn's records about the king's bastard children a couple of times. There was the girl at the Vale, a grown woman now, and Gendry Waters and Edric Storm of course. There were obviously more – sixteen altogether, according to the late Lord Arryn – but it was clearly Edric Storm Lord Tywin was interested in. He was the the king's son with Delena Florent; Lord Tywin would only want the best for a member of his family.

The king smiled. "A marriage between bastards, Lord Tywin? I did not think it would be you who would want that. Lord Frey had offered his granddaughter for Edric. Bastard granddaughter. Her dowry will be her weight in silver. If you want a bastard marriage, I have another bastard, Gendry."

Lord Tywin stared at him. "I am offering my niece Joy Hill for your natural son Edric Storm Your Grace. No other. Her dowry will be her weight in gold." Ripples of admiration spread amongst the courtiers. Her weight in _gold?_ Generous dowry for a bastard niece, but all the gold would be returned to Lord Tywin to pay off at least a quarter or half of the gold owed to Casterly Rock.

Sensing the king's interest, Lord Tywin's mouth twisted into something faintly resembling a smile or a grimace. "I'm willing to forgive the Crown a quarter of its debts," he said clearly, "if His Grace agrees to recognise my grandson Tommen of House Baratheon and his future descendants as the heirs of Casterly Rock. If His Grace agrees, I desire for Tommen to take the name of Lannister and once all our matters are concluded, I wish for Tommen to return with me to Casterly Rock. As well as that, I ask for the marriage of Tommen and Princess Minisa."

Stannis rose from his seat. "Lord Tywin, what you request is impossible." He'd already had a copy of Lady Cersei's arrest warrant in his grasp.

Lord Tywin frowned. "Lord Hand, my terms are beyond generous and like any lord in my position, I must secure my succession. Tommen is as much a Lannister as he is a Baratheon."

"Oh he is indeed a Lannister, but he is not a Baratheon," boomed the king. The lords and ladies whispered excitedly as Stannis walked up to Tywin Lannister, an arrest warrant in hand. He handed it to the confused Lord Tywin. "Are you aware that Ser Jaime and Cersei have committed incest?" Stannis said softly. "If that was not all, your daughter tried to pass off two of her children as mine. Read this Lord Tywin. We have evidence that two of your grandchildren are products of incest. I have already sent a raven ordering the arrest of the Lady Cersei. Moreover, both of her bastards will be brought to court for her trial."

Lord Tywin darkened. "What you say are blatant lies, lord Hand," he hissed. "I warn you, lord Hand, it is unwise-"

"I have condemning evidence," Stannis repeated. "We can continue this talk or we can discuss more in private with the king."

"The court will hear of it eventually lord Hand."

"They will." It was the truth after all. There was no point denying it. What King Robert said had already spread seeds of rumours and intrigue. In about six to ten minutes, an abundant supply of rumours would arise. "Would you rather all lords and ladies hear the blunt truth my lord, or a pretty little lie?" Stannis loathed lies, but it would be beneficial to soften Lord Tywin before Cersei's trial.

Lord Tywin glowered. "My lord Hand, is it possible to continue this discussion with His Grace somewhere more private?"

* * *

"You wanted privacy Lord Tywin," said the king pleasantly, gesturing for Lord Tywin and Stannis to sit down. "Now speak my lord."

"I will not have my daughter arrested," said Lord Tywin flatly, his eyes shining with anger. "I will not allow it."

"Allow it?" Stannis arched an eyebrow. "It's already done as I told you earlier. I myself had sent the raven and by now, Lady Cersei would have been arrested. If I am right, she is on her way to King's Landing as we speak under strict guard. You see, Lord Tywin, it's too late for you to forbid me to to arrest Lady Cersei."

"My lord Hand, in detaining my daughter on false and forthrightly ghastly and disgusting charges, you have offended House Lannister and the Westerlands. It is a mistake to earn the ire of the Westerlands, my lord Hand. In the past, those that have offended my House regretted it."

"Is that a threat, Lord Lannister? Must I remind you that threatening members of the royal family's considered treasonous? Perhaps the Lady Cersei will find it a comfort to be on trial with you. Adultery for her and high treason for you. Oh and your son Ser Jaime will be arrested too. Grounds of incest. He'll be stripped of his white cloak and if the king is feeling merciful, you and Ser Jaime will spend all the rest of your lives at the Wall."

The king grunted in agreement.

"Where is my son?" said Lord Tywin sharply.

"Guarding the drawbridge of Maegor's Holdfast," the king answered, "with my wife's uncle Ser Brynden." Usually guarding the drawbridge of Maegor's Holdfast was an individual task for one of the Kingsguard knights, but Ser Jaime was to be arrested immediately after the talk with Lord Tywin. Precautions were taken and the Blackfish was tasked to carefully watch Ser Jaime and a few other Kingsguard knights and household knights were stationed nearby in case Ser Jaime decided a run would be better than gracefully accepting arrest.

"Your Grace, my daughter is not a whore and her children are legitimate, all of them. Steffon, Cassana, Robert, Myrcella and Tommen."

Stannis frowned. "You forgot Shireen."

Lord Tywin's eyes glimmered with hatred. "She's no granddaughter of mine."

"Shireen is my daughter, Lord Tywin. She's more Baratheon than Myrcella and Tommen who are in truth bastards."

"And your proof lies in an old book? Forgive me lord Hand, but that is thin."

Stannis pulled a folded piece of parchment from his pocket. It was the list of all the Baratheon-Lannister marriages recorded in the ponderous yet essential book, _'The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms'_. There was only one copy of that book and in King's Landing, valuables and vital books or an essential scroll or two could disappear under questionable circumstances. At the present, the book was safe in Shireen's chamber in Storm's End. Stannis could've kept the book in his own rooms, as Lady Cersei never entered there without good reasons, but he did not want to take the risk of her discovering it. Lady Cersei did not go near Shireen or her rooms at all which was why keeping the book there of all places was the most ideal solution.

"What is that, lord Hand?" asked Lord Tywin coldly.

Stannis met his icy gaze. "Robart Baratheon and Lanna Lannister," he read out aloud. "Joren Baratheon and Malora Lannister. Stanwell Baratheon and Alysanne Lannister. Roland Baratheon and Meredyth Lannister. Gowen Baratheon and Tya Lannister." He looked back at Lord Tywin. "These are all the Baratheon-Lannister marriages before mine own."

"What about them lord Hand?"

"Not all of them yielded children, but some did. Joren and Malora had two sons and a daughter. All three of them were black of hair with blue eyes. Stanwell and Alysanne also had a son and daughter. Black-haired and blue-eyed. Lastly, Gowen and Tya had a son who died in infancy. He was black-haired and blue-eyed. More to the point, Lady Cersei had given me four trueborn children, all with black hair. They will remain legitimate. It is only Tommen and Myrcella who are bastards of incest. You should be pleased to hear that Lord Tywin."

"That still proves naught, lord Hand. If this is what you plan to present to all of the courtiers, I fear you are wasting your time."

"I have letters, Lord Tywin. Letters between Ser Jaime and Cersei Lannister. In one of them, Lady Cersei admitted to Ser Jaime that Tommen will succeed you as the Lord of Casterly Rock as is his birthright…as a full-blooded Lannister."

Lord Tywin's lips tightened. He glanced at the king and then at Stannis. "There must be something that can make these filthy charges go away," he said quietly, a hint of weariness in his voice. Arrogance remained, but it was tired now. "I won't have House Lannister's legacy tarnished."

"Tommen will not succeed you as Lord of Casterly Rock. He's a bastard and I'll not turn a blind eye to that. He has no succession rights to either Casterly Rock or Storm's End. If you insist on naming a bastard your heir, you must know that His Grace and I have agreed that Tommen will never wed a princess."

"Forget about all this, my lord Hand. Forget about it and I'll forgive the Crown of all its debts to Casterly Rock. _All_ its debts."

Desperate act of a desperate man.

"That's quite generous of you Lord Tywin," said the king with a smile, "but I'm afraid the High Septon will have my head. Incest is taboo, Lord Tywin, and all the gold in Casterly Rock cannot save your son and daughter. Besides, Ser Jaime had cuckolded my brother and lord Hand. That will not do at all. Surely from one man to another, you'd want justice if _you_ were cuckolded?"

Lord Tywin was silent. Taking the opportunity to speak, Stannis said, "I'll have justice, Lord Tywin. I _will_ have it. If you try in any way to bribe or hinder the trial, I will have you charged for interference and you'll have the pleasure of watching your son Tyrion become Lord of Casterly Rock before you face judgement as just plain Tywin Lannister. That's a warning and a promise, Lord Tywin, and I'm sure you know that I am a man of my word."

"You will also remain here as my honoured guest," added the king.

"For how long Your Grace?" Lord Tywin said in a low voice.

"Until everything is sorted," the king replied, "a little after that too. Oh, and all of your letters will be read too. I thought it best to warn you my lord."

"Nothing I suggested will change your mind?"

"Nothing," said Stannis firmly. "Nothing at all."

* * *

Arresting Ser Jaime Lannister was easier than Stannis had anticipated. Instead of an escape attempt or even a denial, Ser Jaime had only sighed and allowed two of his sworn brothers to take him to the dungeons. After ensuring the angry Lord Tywin was confined in his chambers, Stannis went to visit Ser Jaime.

As he was highborn and a knight, Ser Jaime was detained in one of the smaller cells on the second level of the Red Keep's four levels of dungeons.

"Lord Hand," drawled Ser Jaime, attempting a weak smirk as he caught sight of him. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Why?" said Stannis promptly. "You must know it is wrong."

"Why what _lord Hand?_ "

"Fornicating with your own sister Ser Jaime. You know quite well that you are Myrcella and Tommen's true father."

Ser Jaime was silent for a minute. When he spoke, the Lannister arrogance had vanished. "I love her," he said quietly. "I can't expect a man like you to know how it feels. I loved Cersei since the day we both entered the world. Without her, I feel incomplete. When we made love, it feels like we are whole."

Stannis's impassive expression contorted into a look of disgust. "When did you realise Tommen and Myrcella were your children?"

"When they were born. When Cersei gave birth to Robert, I wasn't so sure if he was mine. You see, Cersei was happy at her twins. They weren't the lion cubs she wanted, but they were still her perfect twins. She wanted to call them Joffrey and Joanna, but you already sent her a letter naming them Steffon and Cassana." He'd chuckled. "Cersei was livid. Anyway, every time Cersei would visit court, I would find her and we would fuck." Stannis's nose twitched. Ser Jaime saw it. "You don't like fucking, my lord?" Ser Jaime said bitterly. "Cersei said that to me too. She had once said all you cared about was having heirs. It would not matter whether they are in truth mine…or yours."

"Why did you choose to confess? You are a good swordsman, I will not deny it. If you wanted, you could have tried to escape capture."

Ser Jaime shrugged. "What's the point of that? It's true I am more warrior than a thinker, but with the Blackfish next to me and no doubt more knights nearby, it would be folly. Besides, I knew one day someone would discover what we did. I'd tried telling Cersei that, but she would not listen. She said no one would discover it, most of all you."

"When's the last time you…did her?"

" _Fucked_ her, lord Hand?" Ser Jaime smiled. "That you don't need to know."

Stannis rapped on the cell door. He was done talking to the Lannister knight. It was time to return to the council chamber where the small council would resume the meeting Lord Tywin had interrupted. Lord Redwyne sounded eager to speak to him too, no doubt about the return of his son and heir. Stannis had expected it since the moment Lord Redwyne learnt the truth about Myrcella and Tommen. It was almost anticipated that Horas Redwyne was to marry Myrcella once she was of age. It would end Baratheon and Redwyne hostilities once and for all, but with Myrcella a proclaimed bastard…

Leaving Ser Jaime in his prison, Stannis made his way out of the dungeons and to the council chamber. It wouldn't be long before the Lady Cersei arrives for her trial, Myrcella and Tommen behind her. All three of them would be guarded with men handpicked by Stannis. He wasn't risking any chance for either of them to be spirited away by men loyal to Lord Tywin Lannister. Lord Tywin was a man who would do anything to protect his House's legacy, which would no doubt include a shot at spiriting his incestuous daughter or bastard grandchildren (or all three of them) to somewhere safe like Casterly Rock.

As Stannis reached the council chamber's door, a sudden thought hit him. _I did not even consider Lord Tywin's offer,_ he contemplated. _Should I have thought more about it? It was for mine own sake that I demanded justice. Without the debts owed to Casterly Rock will be a relief to the Seven Kingdoms though…_ He shook his head. Justice was more important than matters of state.

 _What of the children?_ A voice whispered in Stannis's mind. _Do children deserve to suffer for the crimes of their fathers or mothers?_

Stannis nodded at the two guards who pushed open the door for him. Only the king was there waiting. "Your Grace," said Stannis, swiftly hiding the surprise. "It is…astonishing to see you here so early." He didn't mention that it was also quite a revelation to see the king in the council chamber at all.

"I heard you went to talk to Ser Jaime," the king commented, gesturing for him to sit down. "How did it go?"

"It was satisfactory Your Grace," said Stannis tightly.

"You know after the trial you will be free to wed?"

"I plan not to unless obliged to for the sake of the Seven Kingdoms. Your Grace, I must ask. Why are you here so early? All the other councillors haven't arrived – not even Lord Varys."

The king sighed. "Would it hurt you to call me brother or 'Robert' at least? You hadn't called me brother since I had that blasted crown put on my head."

Stannis stared at him. Their conversation was getting odder. "Forgive me Your Grace," he said finally. "I have council matters to attend to. Rosby inheritance and all that. I believe the meeting will not start until ten minutes. Lords Redwyne and Tyrell prefer to arrive last."

"I see." The king patted him on the shoulder. "You know if you want, we don't have to have a trial. If you wish, just say the word and I'll have both Ser Jaime and Lady Cersei executed."

The Westerlands wouldn't be pleased. "Thank you," muttered Stannis. Robert was only trying to be…comforting. "Thank you for the offer, um Robert, but there will be a trial." His fingers curled into a fist. "There _will_ be justice."

* * *

 **Life is getting busier and busier. Writing stories, plotting stories, work, more work, sleep etc. I'll keep trying to upload a chapter per week. The terms Lord Tywin stated in this chapter were meant to be slightly outrageous as he is still a proud man who wants power and a brilliant legacy.**

 **Clary Sage - this is getting into a repeated habit, but sorry, sorry, sorry! The oneshot still isn't done yet! I'll try and have it finished and posted next Wednesday, but sorry again if it isn't done by then.**


	81. The Queen of Thorns II

"What is this? Leeks?" The Queen of Thorns leant forward and sniffed sharply at the scattered green fragments of leek floating languidly on a small lake of pale, buttery yellow soup served in a bowl of white with its edges adorned with swirls of green leaves and golden roses. "I'm not fond of leeks – especially leek soup. An old favourite of my late husband's," she added as the Princess Lyanna glanced up at her curiously. "He was a fool, Luthor. Much like my oaf son Mace. It was during a feast at Highgarden – Luthor's nephew and namesake's wedding in fact – when my late husband swallowed a spoonful of leek soup instead of chestnut soup. He enjoyed it so much he had the Highgarden chefs make it for him every day."

" _Grandmother._ " Margaery rolled her eyes. "I'm certain the Princess Lyanna has no desire to hear about what Grandfather Luthor liked to eat."

Olenna reached and snagged a passing servant. "I dislike leek soup immensely. Take it away and bring me some cheese."

"The cheese will be served after the cakes and tarts, my lady."

"The cheese will be served when I want it served, and I want it served now." It was irritating when servants repeat words like those talking birds. Why couldn't they understand one's orders more quickly? Olenna fixed her brown eyes on her future good-granddaughter. Princess Lyanna looked more depressed than usual. Odd as she wasn't raised alongside her betrothed or spent years or months at his side. Princess Lyanna Baratheon and Robb Stark weren't strangers to each other; they weren't madly in love either. A broken betrothal should not be shocking, nor lead to days of listless brooding.

"Do you like cheese, Princess Lyanna?" asked Margaery.

Princess Lyanna looked at her, startled like a distressed doe. "Oh, cheese is ah, quite nice," she said hurriedly, avoiding Olenna's steady stare. "I like cheese with ham on bread for lunch."

Margaery flashed her a large smile. "What a coincidence Princess Lyanna!" she exclaimed. "I enjoy lunching on that too!" The princess smiled politely.

"I heard you like lemon cakes," spoke Olenna. She waved her hand and a third servant approached, holding a plate full of lemon cakes. Olenna inwardly grinned as she saw Princess Lyanna's blue eyes light up with delight. Ah, she was just like other girls who had a fondness for sweets and little cakes. Personally, Olenna had never enjoyed lemon cakes. Oh, she had once fancied blackberry and strawberry tarts when she was a girl. Before she was engaged of course. Her dislike for cakes and tarts replaced her love for them when she had watched her Redwyne cousin Lyssa choke to death on a slice of apple pie.

"That's a Tully attribute my lady." Princess Lyanna beamed with pleasure. The servant placed the plate of lemon cakes in front of her, bowed and retreated back to his place as silent as a rat. Olenna's eyes gleamed. "A Tully attribute?" she then asked, feigning ignorance.

"My lady mother loves lemon cakes," Princess Lyanna explained. "She had told me once that my aunt Lady Lysa enjoys lemon cakes too. All of my female cousins love lemon cakes too." She smiled. "I don't know about my male cousins though. I _do_ know that my uncle Edmure isn't fond of lemon cakes."

Margaery laughed. "Lemon cakes are delicious," she agreed, delicately picking up one and putting it on her plate. "Lemon cakes at Highgarden are the best." She leant closer to the princess. "The chefs can make lemon cakes for you every day if it is your desire," she said sweetly.

Good grief. First leek soup every day and now lemon cake. Olenna suppressed an oncoming shudder. Oh no, that would not do at all. "There are other delicacies at Highgarden," she said swiftly. "I myself haven't tasted many of them in the last decade. Lost most of my teeth," she added, giving the princess a toothless grin. "It is a pity. There are so many nice, crunchy dishes that involve cheese."

Princess Lyanna smiled at her, more forced than before. "I'm certain there are a number of delicious dishes involving cheese my lady."

"Are you excited to marry my brother Willas?" Margaery inquired. Olenna also leant forward with interest, rubbing her thin fingers together.

"Lord Willas seems to be a kind-"

"Louder child!" Olenna barked. The princess stared at her, astonished. "Please forgive me, Princess. My hearing is not as good as it once was."

"Oh," said Princess Lyanna and she raised her voice slightly. "My apologies my lady. I think Lord Willas is kind, handsome and clever with words."

"Clever with words," snickered Olenna, nodding. "Willas is indeed different to his oaf of a father and a fool of a grandfather. Like Margaery here, Willas had also inherited my brains. First man in House Tyrell to have a brain, Princess. Well, the first man in decades." She tapped her skinny fingers on the table. "I blame Luthor Tyrell's grandmother," she commented rather absently. "She was a _Bulwer_. I once heard that Bulwers were inflicted with stupidity. Do you know what Lord Oaf did soon enough? _Against_ my advice, he wedded his cousin Victor's daughter Victaria to the late Lord Jon _Bulwer_. I suggested for Victaria to be married to the Florents' heir to end Tyrell-Florent disputes. My oaf son-"

"Grandmother," Margaery cut in. "Forgive me but I do not think the princess is interested in my father's…matchmaking."

"I am interested," said Princess Lyanna quickly. "My lady, pray continue."

Olenna smiled, more to herself than to the Baratheon princess. It was quite the relief Willas was engaged to a clever and interesting young woman. It was still an honour for Willas to be betrothed to the king's _eldest_ daughter, but it was much a comfort to discover Princess Lyanna a young woman with wit rather than a quiet and rather docile woman like Alerie Hightower.

"Keep your allies close and your enemies closer," Olenna stated. She smiled to herself as Princess Lyanna frowned slightly, abandoning her half-nibbled lemon cake on the plate. Margaery reached for another lemon cake. Olenna had told her that particular saying when she was a girl of eight. It never hurt educating young children, especially girls. "I trust you heard of that, Princess?"

Princess Lyanna shook her head. "I'm afraid not my lady."

"Oh? It's a lovely saying, Princess Lyanna." She turned to Margaery. "Margaery, remind an old woman of what it means."

Margaery giggled. "Grandmother, surely the princess can guess?"

"My late grandfather Lord Hoster used to say that every great lord had to deal with their Brackens and Blackwoods," said Princess Lyanna quietly.

"Every great lord has to deal with their own Freys too," Olenna mused. "House Florent is the Freys and Brackens."

Princess Lyanna cracked a smile. "My lady, I doubt the Florents are both Freys and Brackens. The Brackens aren't…as unfriendly I suppose."

"Eh. I'm certain Lord Edmure will disagree. One can never trust foxes, Princess. Remember that. You will be Lady of Highgarden soon enough and you'll discover roses and foxes don't mix. Foxes will try anything to nip off our heads. No Florent had ever married a Tyrell and I thought – why not try for peace? Like most of the Lords of Highgarden before him, my oaf son rebuffed my suggestion. He said that the day a fox is invited into the garden, all the roses will die." She snorted. "What do you think of that, Princess Lyanna?"

The princess blinked. "That is a little dramatic my lady," she said, choosing her words carefully. Olenna chuckled. "My fool of a son can be quite overly dramatic," she agreed. She didn't mention that Mace practically demanded Harrenhal as the princess's dowry. Fool.

The door to Olenna's chambers opened and one of Mace's pages – a tiny boy of eight with the Merryweather sigil of a golden horn of plenty spilling out a variety of fruits and vegetables of many colours including apples, carrots, plums, onions, leeks, grapes and turnips, on a white field bordered in gold splashed on the right breast of his tunic – ran in, stumbling into a bow. Olenna clicked her tongue with irritation at the Merryweather boy.

Like many great lords, Mace had an entourage of squires and pages, all of their fathers hoping to garner favour with Mace. Olenna squinted at the Merryweather boy. Oh what was his name? Rupert? Runcel? Runceford? The Longtable heir was small for his age and seemed to have inherited more from his father than his lady mother. Apart from inheriting his Myrish-born mother's large, dark eyes, the boy inherited naught more. He had Lord Orton Merryweather's lumpy nose and quite messy hair, though brown not orange-red.

"Russell," said Margaery sweetly, recognising the boy. "Did my father send you here to tell us something?"

Olenna rolled her eyes. "Why else will he be here, Margaery?"

"Lord Tyrell told me to come here to tell you Lord Willas has arrived," Russell Merryweather informed her, his eyes darting to Princess Lyanna for a second.

"Willas is here?" Margaery's eyebrows rose. "Already?"

Olenna glanced at Princess Lyanna. She'd paled for a moment before making a rather quick recovery. Willas's arrival at King's Landing _would_ be unexpected. To Olenna though, less of a surprise. Ever since his injury, Willas rarely left his home, Highgarden. He spent his days breeding his hawks, hounds and horses and would stay up late in his chambers, his nose stuck in a book. However, taking the advice of Garlan, Willas had at last begun a progress throughout the Reach a few months ago. Willas was a keen writer and had written a number of letters to Mace, Alerie, Olenna herself and his siblings. The last letter stated that he had already watched a melee hosted by Elwood Meadows, Lord of Grassy Vale, a cousin of both the red and green apple Fossoways. Also in attendance were Lord Meadows's cousin the Lady Lysa, wife of Willas's distant cousin Ser Olymer Tyrell (also there) and both their sons. Their only daughter Megga was one of Margaery's companions.

"I'm sorry." Princess Lyanna was on her feet and glancing at the door. "I didn't realise the uh, time. My lady mother is expecting me-"

"Nonsense." Olenna waved her soft, spotted hand. "I may be an old woman but I know that look." Princess Lyanna frowned slightly, puzzled. "You are frightened, are you not? Scared of meeting your betrothed?"

Princess Lyanna blushed. "I…"

Olenna sighed. "What is it with southron maidens these days? Always so shy. I was most certainly not so timid and demure when I was your age Princess. When I was nine years of age, I was betrothed to Prince Daeron Targaryen. When I first met my betrothed, I knew at once I didn't want to wed him." She smirked. "When we were both eighteen, I broke the betrothal."

"Lady Tyrell!" Princess Lyanna looked scandalised, yet intrigued.

Olenna chuckled and reached for her cup of Arbor gold. "I had no desire to be wedded off to that odd prince. Charming yes, but very odd. Kept insisting that his pet dog was a dragon. Then again, he was a child of ten when he said that. Back in the days, my father Runceford was one of the most powerful and influential lords in the Reach. He was also such good friends with the Lord Tyrell back then that it was he who was honoured with fostering Luthor. When he was still a boy and I a girl, he paid no attention to me. None at all!" She rolled her eyes and cackled. The Baratheon princess lingered in her spot with interest. "I made sure Luthor picked me," Olenna went on. "Out of all my Redwyne cousins, I ensured Luthor chose me as his wife." Her lips curved into a smile. "I _ensured_ it."

Silence descended into the room. Margaery's eyes were wide open and Lyanna Baratheon hovered like an uncertain goose (though a doe would be more fitting). Olenna swivelled around and snapped at the heir to Longtable. "Why are you still here, goggling like a fish? Don't you have page duties to deal with?"

Russell Merryweather remained standing there, gawking at her like a fool. By the Seven even Butterbumps, the fool and jester at Highgarden, had more a brain than the Merryweather heir. " _Go_ ," Olenna said slowly, jabbing at the door. "We've heard what you came here to say; now you may go." She turned back to Margaery and Princess Lyanna. "Pray sit Princess." Olenna gestured to the seat that Lyanna had vacated a few minutes ago. "There will be more cake – and my cheese."

* * *

By the time Olenna tottered to the Great Hall for a spot of supper with Left and Right behind her, court was already buzzing with news. Lord Tywin, the Old Lion of Casterly Rock, was confined in his chambers; the Kingslayer had been arrested and placed in the dungeons; and Lady Cersei Baratheon was to arrive any minute to answer the charge of adultery.

Olenna suspected there was more going on than a mere trial of adultery.

"My lord husband was jumping with excitement," said Margaery, joining her at the table, "for what reasons, I do not know."

"Quite unlike you." Olenna clucked disapprovingly. "Did Lord Renly mention a small detail or two at all?"

"Sadly no. However Loras let it slip that the Reach would rise high."

Olenna snorted. "That sounds like something your oaf father would say."

"Perhaps…or perhaps he is telling the truth."

"I know you love your brother Margaery, but you must admit that at times, his views are oft influenced by his heart." Olenna's eyes travelled to the high table as Margaery uttered a response. The queen was whispering to Princess Lyanna and nodding in Olenna and Margaery's direction. Olenna smiled. During the wedding at Highgarden, the queen had encouraged Princess Lyanna to sit and speak to her old betrothed, Robb Stark. Though it was hard to say the queen herself was in an ecstatically happy marriage, with the king having a different prostitute in his bed every night, the queen yearned for her children to be in loving marriages – a rare blessing in the marriage market.

"Grandmother. Margaery." Willas sat down next to Margaery. Olenna looked at him and nodded approvingly. Willas did not look stained from travel. Good. Some men preferred to meet their future wives in travel-stained attire after a very long journey. Unfortunately even men of the Reach, the centre of chivalry and honour, would greet their betrotheds in boots caked in mud and dirt, tunics stinking with sweat and cloaks that were soiled. At least Willas had the common sense to show up in Tyrell green silk, his newest pair of black boots and a green satin cloak that was clasped around his neck by a golden rose brooch.

"Your progress around the Reach was fast," Olenna commented. "I didn't think you would arrive so early."

"Father sent a raven," Willas explained. "When I was in Grassy Vale, I received a raven from Father. He told me to come straight to King's Landing and continue my progress at a later time." His forehead creased. "He said he'd finally found the perfect bride for me and to come here immediately for the wedding."

"Did he tell you her name?" To Olenna's astonishment, Willas shook his head. _I thought Mace would be bursting with excitement to tell him_. Perhaps Mace was so eager when he wrote the letter that he had neglected writing down that his soon-to-be good-daughter was Princess Lyanna Baratheon. "Did he inform you when it is you are to be wed?" Olenna frowned. She was not aware of the wedding held at the earliest convenience.

Willas shook his head again. "He said for me to come quickly. I supposed that I would have my wedding garments made here."

"Lady Tyrell. Lady Baratheon."

Olenna looked up and pasted a toothless smile on her face as she saw Princess Lyanna Baratheon smiling timidly at her, Margaery and Willas. Willas stood up at once, leaning heavily on his lacquer black cane, the silver handle a bird of prey. It was a pretty change from the typical golden rose. Willas smiled gently at Princess Lyanna and bowed to the best of his ability.

"Lord Willas." The princess's cheeks were as pink as strawberries.

"My lady princess." Willas's smile grew as he kindly kissed her hand. "You are looking more radiant than ever."

Princess Lyanna's blush reddened further. By the Seven it was like she'd never heard a compliment in her life before.

"I believe no introductions is necessary," said Olenna briskly. She gestured for the princess to sit down, "but for the sake of court etiquette, Princess Lyanna, my grandson Willas. Willas, your betrothed, Princess Lyanna."

"My betrothed…" murmured Willas thoughtfully. He beamed at the princess. "I am honoured to be chosen to be your future husband." He quietened. "Princess, it is not my place to say," he said hesitantly, "but I know you must be upset that you will no longer wed Robb Stark. I heard he is a good man. I promise you I will treat you well and kindly. I know I'm older than you ah considerably, and I'm a cripple, but I will never abandon you and I hope over time we will both be content in our marriage and I pray you see me other than a cripple who cannot defend you with a sword in times of war."

Olenna smiled. Clever of Willas to begin with the truth. She stood up. "Forgive me," she said to Willas and Princess Lyanna. "The maester told me I should go for a walk twice a day. I fear I have been a terrible patient. The only walking I do is a quick stroll to this Great Hall for supper! I should listen to the maester now don't you agree?" She chuckled as the princess gave her a strained smile. Willas smiled at Olenna too. Olenna slowly shuffled away. _Margaery is a capable chaperone_. She walked towards the small huddle of Dornishmen. One of them – a big-boned and long-legged woman with hideously close-set eyes and rat-brown hair – shot her a suspicious glare. How pleasant.

The Dornishmen looked at Olenna, some with vague interest. "Have you not all seen an old woman before?" Olenna snapped. She was in no mood to be stared at by a pack of Dornishmen.

"Old woman?" Slithering from his hidey hole, the Red Viper grinned at Olenna, his black viper eyes glittering like black diamonds. He looked at Olenna. "My lady the Queen of Thorns," he said with a lazy smirk.

"Red Viper," acknowledged Olenna shortly. "I see you brought friends."

"A few." Prince Oberyn gestured for Olenna to sit down and join him. "Perhaps a cup of Dornish strongwine? It is much better than your red water." His Dornish friends laughed as Olenna narrowed her eyes. "Introductions!" The Dornish viper decided. "My lady Tyrell, these are Ser Ryon Allyrion, Ser Deziel Dalt, Lady Myria Jordayne, Lord Tremond Gargalen, Lord Dagos Manwoody and his sons Mors and Dickon, my lovely paramour Ellaria and my eldest natural daughter Obara." Ah, it was Obara Sand with the close-set eyes and rat-brown hair. Count on the Dornish to bring their bastards with them to court.

Ignoring the Dornish nobles present, Olenna spoke to the Red Viper directly. "I heard that there has been a development here at court. The lions of Lannister are finally tamed, eh? By our grim lord Hand of all people!" Prince Oberyn nodded. "I couldn't believe my ears," he said waving all the Dornishmen away. He waited till he and Olenna were alone before he said, "An interesting development."

"Charges of adultery."

Prince Oberyn studied Olenna for a moment. "You are a clever woman my lady Tyrell," he said finally. "Half these lickspittles here are willing to believe what the Baratheon king told them. Charges of _adultery_." He snickered. "If the charges are true, where is the man who Lady Cersei fucked? Why was Lord Tywin confined in his chambers? Why was the Kingslayer arrested? For slaying the Mad King? Quite a bit late to arrest him for that."

"Odd indeed."

"It does benefit us though, my lady. When _he_ arrives, the Westerlands may not send troops to aid the Baratheon king." The Red Viper's eyes gleamed. "It'll be an advantage for us my lady."

Olenna smiled, but could not help wonder. With Princess Lyanna wedding into the family, was all this plotting truly worth it? Perhaps she was getting senile and old – unlikely, but a possibility. _Margaery will be queen though_. The vision of Lady Margaery as queen was one Olenna shared with Mace. A Tyrell queen.

"…not too long now," Prince Oberyn was saying. "Soon the rightful king will be on the Iron Throne and your granddaughter his queen." It was bold of the prince to speak about it in such a public place.

Olenna nodded. "Soon," she said, more half-heartedly than before. With two of her grandchildren bound to the Baratheons (or about to in Willas's case), was it a wise choice aiding the vengeance-thirsty Martells in bringing about a Targaryen restoration? Margaery would be queen, but at what cost?

Was it truly worth it?

* * *

 **Sorry for the late update. Sick again -_- Summer in Australia is crazy! So hot one day and then reasonable weather (21-25) the next.**

 **Clary Sage, I've uploaded your oneshot. I'm very, very, very sorry for the wait. It's called 'My Lady Lyanna'. I hope you like it :) I've put more of my thoughts about your prompt in the oneshot's A/N.**


	82. Robb III

The sound of pouring rain roused an exhausted Robb from his snooze. Usually, the pitter-pattering of rain would lull him back into the realm of deep dreams – it was not the case today.

Rubbing his eyes, Robb wearily rose from his bed and padded barefoot across the room. He peered out the window and sighed gloomily. The vast sky was again a canvas of dark grey – just like the last six days. Though it was dawn, the endless downpour of rain had already started. Small, sharp shards of water rained down from the cluster of heavy, thunderous clouds, pelting those unlucky enough to be caught in the crossfire.

Absently scratching his chin, Robb glanced at the sleeping Daenerys, huddling cosily in layers upon layers of fur blankets. _Your wife_ , Robb reminded himself for the one hundredth, if not more, time. _Daenerys is now your wife_. Instead of feeling warmth in his heart, he felt…anxiety. _What's the matter with you?_ Robb pondered irritably. _You wormed out of a political betrothal and married your true love. You should be happy_. Leaving Daenerys sound asleep, Robb went down to his father's solar to begin his day. To his astonishment, Jon was already there waiting for him. Usually it was the maester who was first to speak to Robb.

"Jon!" said Robb, unable to conceal his surprise. "Brother! I…I didn't expect to see you here so early! I thought you'd be…training."

More solemn than usual, Jon jerked his head to the solar window. "It's raining, Robb," he stated flatly. "Maester Luwin said that there will most likely be a storm today. It'd been raining for about a week now. The visiting lords are growing um, impatient." His dark grey eyes met Robb's. "Some want to go and kill wildlings. A few others just want to go home. To their families," he added, his eyes not leaving Robb's, "and their loved ones."

Impatience jolted Robb in the gut. Couldn't Jon see that he'd also wanted all of the visiting lords gone? Half of them refused to speak to him; the rare couple that did spoke words laced with sarcasm and a heavy dose of malice. "I cannot control the weather," said Robb coolly. "It is late autumn and we're bound to receive a lot of rain. That is to be expected Jon."

Jon nodded expressionlessly. "I used to enjoy listening to rain," he commented. "Not that much anymore. Remember when we were young boys Robb? When the weather was foul and it was raining, we cheered. I hated training in the rain. Only Domeric would continue. He said the rain never bothered him. We have been bad children, Robb. Avoided training with the excuse of rain. Avoided Maester Luwin with the excuse of sunny days…"

Robb laughed. "We were children back then, Jon. You were better than I. You'd never fall for temptation."

"There was nothing to tempt me."

"I'm sure there was, Jon. I'm sure there was."

"Any news from Father?" Jon asked suddenly.

Robb doubted Jon came so early to reminisce their childhood, discuss the rain, the weather and inquire about letters. "There's been a letter from Father late last night," Robb decided to say to him. "Father wrote that the king is quite impatient. He wants Lyarra and Arya – or at least just Lyarra – to be at King's Landing soon for the royal wedding. Father wrote that once Lyarra arrives, the wedding will be held in three days."

"Did you write back?"

"Of course. I wrote that bad weather has delayed their departure. Father must know how awful autumn weather can get. I also wrote that if I allowed my sisters to travel in such weather, it might damage their health."

Jon arched an eyebrow. "Arya never wanted to go south. Lyarra never wanted to be the future queen either." Robb bit back an angry retort as Jon looked at him almost accusingly.

"Plans change," Robb said as coldly as he could muster. Father had no trouble speaking icily to his bannermen. It was time Robb learnt to do it properly too. "It was not planned," he repeated. "Marrying Prince Orys is an honour many lords of the south desire for their own daughters. From all the noblewomen in the realms, the king chose Lyarra to be his good-daughter."

"He'd _demanded_ her once Father told him you'd jilted the Princess Lyanna and married Daenerys. You are lucky the king didn't demand your head."

Robb groaned. Day upon day – if it wasn't the maester, it would be Jon, or Arya, or Lyarra, or one of the northern lords (usually the Greatjon). Domeric refused to speak to him and the sole person who seemed genuinely happy for him and Dany was Theon, who'd thought it an amusing jape. "Would you like a sprinkle of sugar on top of your porridge my lady Stark?" Theon would ask one day at breakfast, as he bowed mockingly at Daenerys. Another time Theon would 'politely' inquire to her, "Will we all be expecting to see Robb's pups someday soon my lady Stark? A vast litter perhaps?" He would've continued harassing poor Dany if Robb had not told him to stop by threatening to rip out his balls.

"…and I have been thinking about it for quite some time now," Jon was saying. He looked slightly uncomfortable. "I had always thought Winterfell my home, but now with you married to Daenerys and um, with both Daenerys and I being…" He took a deep breath. "I think it'll be best if I leave Winterfell for a while," he said in a rush, not meeting Robb's eye.

Robb stared at him, dumbfounded.

The mild irritation and anger vanished as Jon's words slowly sank in. What he had said was true. Maester Luwin had once taught them a saying: never put all of your eggs in one basket. Having both the last of the Targaryens at Winterfell was dangerous. With so much resentment brewing in Winterfell, one little slip would send House Stark towards the black cells on the grounds of treason.

"Where will you go?" said Robb tentatively.

"North," said Jon promptly. "Not to join the Night's Watch," he said hastily. "No, I have no desire of doing that, but I want to help them fight the wildlings. The um, wildlings, will not fight fair which will put the black brothers at a disadvantage. I learnt a few Dornish tactics from Prince Oberyn and thought, why not attempt to utilise them if needed? They aren't the most honourable fighting tactics, but what can you expect from the Red Viper of Dorne?"

"We have not fought in a true war before," Robb reminded him. "We had mock wars in the courtyard, but they will be nothing compared to the skirmishes you'll face against the wildlings. You might…you might die," he finished lamely.

Jon cracked a tiny smile. "We will all die one day."

"Are you sure you want to die fighting wildlings?"

Jon's smile disappeared instantly. "I've already thought about it," he said again, more stiffly. "With your permission my lord brother, I'd like to leave tomorrow at dawn for Castle Black with a number of men."

"Tomorrow? At dawn?" Robb looked at him blankly. "Jon! It'll probably still be raining tomorrow! You would die first of a cold! Wait until the rain fully clears at least." An idea struck him. "Go south instead," he suggested on a whim. "Arya and Lyarra will need to be escorted to King's Landing and as I cannot do it, you can go in my stead." Jon didn't look pleased in the slightest. "We will all die one day," Jon repeated. "Battlefields have held the bodies of the fallen for centuries and may be holding mine. We don't know what the old gods or new have planned for us. Hell, we could die tomorrow at the orders of an angry lord. Besides, I don't think it's at all appropriate for a bastard like me to escort my trueborn sisters to court."

"You are my _brother_ , Jon. Besides, you are not a bastard-"

"Yes I am," Jon cut in, his voice as cold as ice. "Whoever my true parents are, it is still pretty clear that I am a bastard." He paused. "Lord Cerwyn will be going to Castle Black with his troops tomorrow morning. His troops will meet up with the host from Torrhen's Square that had already set out. I wish to meet up with their hosts with mine own tomorrow. If I leave with a squadron of men at dawn, there is a good chance we can meet up in a couple of hours. It might cease any possible rumours of House Stark hiding behind strong walls," he added. Robb flushed. He should go and fight with Jon at the least, but Maester Luwin had said with Father south with Bran, if Robb was to leave or die, the next acting lord would be Arthur, a young boy of six.

"I'll have a few troops readied," said Robb heavily, his heart sinking like a rock in a pond. "At least pack plenty of uh, warm clothes, sturdy boots and lots of food and weapon supplies that will last the journey and war. Oh, and be sure to write a letter to Father. He will need to know why you have decided to leave Winterfell for Castle Black with a troop or two of his men."

* * *

When the servants delivered Robb his afternoon meal, his mood had not at all improved and his responsibilities have not lessened. In fact, they seemed to have grown. By the time Robb sank his teeth into a thick slice of bread lathered with a generous portion of butter and a chunk of ham ravenously like a wildling, he was heartily tired of listening to the maester's droning lecture about potential actions to pursue for the good of Winterfell.

Honestly, Robb liked old Maester Luwin and was very grateful for all that he'd done; fixing Arya's injuries, teaching Arthur and Rickon and offering mostly good and wise advice, but how much could a young man take in listening to numerous methods of solving possible succession crises that hadn't even arisen yet? That in itself was not as bad as being obliged to take note of likely betrothals to 'mend all the bridges' between House Stark and powerful northern lords.

"House Stark has been alienated and has no allies," Maester Luwin was saying for the third time in a day. "Though House Stark remains Wardens of the North, it is never safe to be without allies in the North. Chances of rebellion are slim; not a guarantee though. Especially nowadays with Lady Stark being Dornish and Lady Lyarra betrothed to a prince rather than a Northman."

Robb almost groaned aloud. It seemed old Maester Luwin's absolute favourite topic of discussion was always betrothals and creating alliances.

"…of course as acting lord, you cannot authorise any betrothals or marriages without your lord father's consent, but you can-"

"What are you trying to say, Maester?" said Robb crossly.

Maester Luwin stared at him unblinkingly. "Send a raven to Lord Bolton Robb. Apologise for your actions and offer him Lady Arya as Domeric's bride. Tell him if he agrees, you will swear on the old gods and news that the month after Arya has her first flowering, she will wed Domeric. Increase her dowry too if it will please Lord Bolton. Once that is sorted, start planning betrothals and fosterings for your brothers Arthur, Rickon and maybe even Bran. Send your plans to your father. It is only he who can decide whether to pursue your plans or not. Once it is all done, House Stark will be strong with allies again."

"That won't work," said Robb at once. "Arya is to journey south in a day or two and Jojen told me that Lord Bolton immediately betrothed Domeric to Greatjon's daughter Arrana. Maester, I cannot afford to slight House Umber, _especially_ in the field of marriage."

"Your sister Gwenysse," said the maester simply, as if he had already given the matter a great deal of thought. "Foster her with the Umbers. She can serve as the cupbearer and companion to Lady Umber. When she flowers, she can marry Lord Umber's youngest son. A wedding gift can be a holdfast and lordship. The Lord of Last Hearth would be a fool to refuse that."

A sound plan, but Robb remained doubtful. The thought of running to the Wall to help fight was more enticing now. Over the last few days, Greatjon Umber had grudgingly discussed battle plans with Robb and they were enjoyable to talk and listen about. Definitely more interesting than alliance-making. "I thought serving as cupbearers is a southron custom," said Robb apprehensively.

Maester Luwin shook his head. "Not exactly. Though it is more common in the south, boys and girls serving as cupbearers had been done in the north too. From the scrolls in the library, it is said that the last Barrow King's sole son served as a page and cupbearer to his good-brother the Stark king. Lady Jeyne Manderly was the cupbearer to Lord Cregan's second wife Lady Alysanne Blackwood before she was married to Lord Cregan's heir Rickon."

"I see. Father will not be pleased with Gwenysse marrying a younger son."

The maester frowned at him. "Robb, it is not my place to criticise the Lord – or in this case the acting Lord – of Winterfell, but I am obliged to reprimand you as a maester would to his student. If you'd heeded my earlier advice Robb, you would not be in this situation. There will be northern matches, but your father would've had the opportunity to ally with other noble Houses such as House Royce or even a noble House from the Riverlands."

Robb bit his lip to suppress his annoyance. "I see." He tapped the table. "When do you think the rain will cease?"

"A day or two perhaps."

"You read my father's letters, Maester. The king is getting impatient. He wants Lyarra and Arya at King's Landing very soon. It is getting harder to control Arya – she had already attempted to escape her chambers twice. We need to send both of them to King's Landing under heavy guard."

"Heavy guard Robb? They are going to King's Landing, not a prison."

"I was thinking of sending Theon with them," said Robb thoughtfully. "I would have preferred Jon escorting Lyarra and Arya, but he is set on travelling with his host of soldiers north. I cannot send Domeric; it would cause more trouble."

Maester Luwin frowned deeply. "Theon, Robb? Are you certain that is a…wise idea? His reputation is not exactly ah, pristine and honourable."

Now it was Robb who frowned. "I trust Theon, Maester Luwin. I think of him a brother like I do to Jon and…Domeric." It was true that these days Theon spent at least half his time in whorehouses and taverns, but he was still Theon. He hadn't lost his talent in archery and was still skilled with the sword. Besides, Theon was basically part of the family and would ardently protect Lyarra and Arya as if they were his sisters by blood.

"Theon Greyjoy is not the most reliable though, Robb."

Robb sighed. "I know Theon wasn't studious in the schoolroom, but he's good with the sword and bow. He can protect my sisters."

"So can all of the household guards Robb. If you intend for your lady sisters to be escorted with a nobleman, why not make it an honour and select the best lord or northern heir to escort them? Perhaps Smalljon Umber or a Karstark?"

"I do not trust them Maester," Robb said truthfully. "If not Jon, then Theon will have to do. I plan to ask him to escort them."

"The northerners will not be pleased. They might think of it as an honour to be chosen to escort your sisters and they will be slighted if you select Theon instead of one of them. Perhaps a compromise? Maybe you choose four nobles to take the Lady Lyarra and Lady Arya to King's Landing? Theon can be one of them."

Robb nodded. It was fair enough. Besides, the four nobles selected would most likely be invited to stay for Lyarra's wedding. "Maybe ten?" he suggested. "I have no desire to insult anymore powerful noble Houses. I will ask Dacey Mormont or one of her siblings, Smalljon Umber, one of the Karstarks and a Ryswell, a knight of House Manderly, Robett Glover, Robin Flint, Daryn Hornwood, Cley Cerwyn or a Tallhart or Domeric and Theon."

"Wise, Robb, but as most of them are already heading to Castle Black…"

Robb huffed. "There is just no pleasing them all Maester!"

"Indeed," Maester Luwin agreed sadly, "and some of them probably wish to be off fighting wildlings than escorting your sisters. Choose carefully Robb." He rose from his seat. "Forgive me, but your lady wife asked me to see her and I'm afraid that I am already late."

Worry washed over Robb. "Is Dany alright?"

"I have not seen her yet, my lord Robb. In fact, it was Arthur who told me Lady Daenerys asked to see me in her chambers. Perhaps she caught a cold."

"Daenerys is rarely sick, except when it comes to her ah…"

Maester Luwin nodded. "I know."

Robb stood up too. Might as well go and stretch his legs for a bit. He glanced at the window. It was still raining ferociously. He wished it would stop – for a small time even! He was twitching to grab his sword for a sparring session. Ah well, the rain didn't seem to cease anytime soon. _I will visit my sisters. They have both been confined in their chambers on my orders. Perhaps tempers will die down once I talk to them._ For fear of further embarrassment in front of the lingering lords, he had ordered servants to bring meals to Lyarra and Arya every day.

It didn't take Robb very long to walk to Lyarra's chamber. When he entered he was surprised to see Arya lying on Lyarra's bed and Lyarra at her desk the sound of her quill scratching at a parchment. _I suppose the guards thought it was alright for Arya to visit Lyarra_ , Robb decided. "Lyarra, Arya," he said cautiously. Arya did not even look at him. Neither did Lyarra. Robb tried again. "Lyarra, Arya," he said a little louder. Arya glanced up and shot him a withering look. "You remember us at last?" she said coldly.

"I never forgot you," said Robb irritably.

Arya snorted. "Imprisoning us in our chambers? Forbidding us to talk to other people? Shipping us off to King's Landing? We are paying for _your_ crimes."

"I did not want that."

"I'm surprised all those lords are still sending men to fight those wildlings on your order. I would've taken all my men home."

Lyarra stood up and faced Robb. Folding her parchment in half, she held it out to him. "I suppose you're here to tell us we are to leave soon?" she asked without a hint of emotion. "If you are still my brother, give this to Domeric for me, as you forbade me from seeing him." Her hand shook. "Tell him I'm sorry."

"There is naught for you to be sorry for," said Robb, astonished.

"Please leave us Robb. I am already packed and I will ensure Arya is too. Do us a favour and please leave Robb."

Confused, Robb left. He did not want Lyarra or Arya to leave Winterfell, but it was the king's orders. There was nothing he could do. Sighing, Robb decided that it would be best to go and visit Daenerys. The last thing he wanted was Daenerys accusing him of neglecting her. Not that Dany would do such a thing. He looked at the letter in his hand. Part of him was tempted to read it.

"No," Robb said aloud to himself. "It's for Domeric's eyes only." He put it in his pocket, remembering to give it to Domeric when he next saw him. Now that he'd properly thought about it, the letter felt more than a piece of parchment. Perhaps two pieces of parchment? Three? Maybe even four or five? Shaking his curiosity a good deal away, Robb headed to Daenerys's chambers. Though they shared a bed on most nights, Daenerys requested her old rooms to dwell in during the daytime. It was a good idea considering not many sought her company.

"Is Dany alright Robb?"

Robb looked down and saw Arthur staring at him expectedly. Standing next to Arthur was Rickon who was clutching a stuffed direwolf.

"I am going to see her now," Robb replied. "I heard it was you who went to tell the maester wasn't it? Good boy." He felt a little awkward and guilty. He'd hardly spent time with his younger brothers. When they were born, he was respectively eleven and fourteen and found swordplay more fun than playing with babies. "I'll go and see Dany now. What are you supposed to be doing?"

"Nothing," said Rickon with a cheeky grin.

"We are waiting for Maester Luwin," said Arthur, giving Rickon a sharp jab. "It is almost lesson time."

Robb gave them a smile and went into Dany's chambers, fearing the worst. On his way in, he remembered Father's concerned face whenever he visited Mother in her chambers. _I hope Daenerys is well…_ thought Robb worriedly. His fears were not soothed when he caught sight of the maester's solemn expression and Dany's pale and wane face.

"What is it?" said Robb at once.

Daenerys glanced at Maester Luwin who nodded back at her. "In eight months, Robb," she said softly, "you will be a father."

* * *

 **Sorry for the long wait. I'm not abandoning this story and have no intention of doing so. I decided to have a short break so I'm back now! I decided to send Jon north because like most of you said, he would be pretty miserable skulking around Winterfell with Robb and Daenerys married. The next chapter's POV is Arya's. Hopefully I'll upload it on Saturday.**

 **Spectre4Hire, take your time thinking about a prompt :) There's no rush.**


	83. Arya IV

The sun slowly slipped back to the clearing blue sky when _Storm Dancer_ sailed speedily towards King's Landing. Standing on deck – against the Tyroshi Captain Moreo Turnitis's advice – Arya stared straight ahead gloomily. While the weather had improved considerably from rainy to sunny, Arya's cold and grim mood had not since the moment she was forced out of Winterfell.

Yes, _forced_.

Seven days ago, when the cluster of grey clouds finally separated for the sun, it had been decided for Lyarra and Arya to leave for White Harbour in the escort of Theon of all people, Cley Cerwyn, heir of Cerwyn and for some reason, Domeric's second youngest uncle Rickard Ryswell. "I'll only be accompanying you to White Harbour," Rickard Ryswell had informed Arya, Lyarra, Theon and Cley. "My lord brother expects me to negotiate an alliance between House Manderly and House Ryswell." Arya didn't care. Rickard Ryswell often made snide comments and was more a pain than comfort. As for Cley Cerwyn, he was more pleasant and nice but that was because Cley often visited Winterfell to spar with the boys from time to time and dine with the girls.

"Does my lady like the view?" Captain Moreo Turnitis appeared at Arya's side, to her annoyance. "My lady is strong to stay on deck."

 _I'm not a lady!_ Arya wanted to shout, but what was the point? Everyone on the bloody galley would smile indulgently and still treat her like a lady. _A_ proper _lady_ , Arya thought with disgust. _Curtseying demurely, singing stupid songs, sewing and_ _dancing all day and dreaming of marrying princes._ She wished she was to foster at Bear Island where she would continue her fighting lessons instead of going south to King's Landing. _It is punishment_ , Arya pondered angrily. _I'm being punished for a crime I didn't commit – Robb's crime. It should be Robb here, not me._ She wasn't even allowed to bring Nymeria with her. She glanced in the direction of the decks. Lyarra would always mention something interesting about King's Landing. She hadn't this time.

"It's an honour of carrying a great lady like yourself on my vessel," the Tyroshi captain went on. "It is the greatest honour my lady. A reward in itself."

"Not for your oarsmen," Arya couldn't resist saying. Moreo's smile widened. "I doubt you will be captain for long if you ferry great lords and ladies around, with their presences onboard as payment. My brother Robb said each oarsman will be given a silver stag each as a token of his gratitude for rowing us to King's Landing quickly. Apparently no other galley is as fast as yours."

Captain Moreo grinned with pride. "Indeed my lady. No other galley is as swift as my _Storm Dancer!_ Where is the other great lady?"

"My sister? Still in her cabin room." Lyarra hardly went on deck. Arya felt very sorry for her. Ripping her away from Domeric was punishment enough; shipping her to King's Landing was beyond cruel. Arya was slightly worried about Lyarra. When the party arrived at White Harbour, they were treated astonishingly kindly by Lord Manderly's son Ser Wylis Manderly and his wife Lady Leona. Lady Leona had asked Lyarra numerous times if she was ill because she ate very little during the feast. She looked more thin too. Unwell thin that was.

"We are almost at King's Landing," said Captain Moreo, still smiling. He bowed at her. "I will leave to check the oarsmen." He left and Theon strode up to Arya, a broad smirk on his face.

"Why are you so happy?" said Arya grumpily.

"Exchanging stories with Cley," responded Theon. "He's gone to check on your sister. That Tyroshi is quite entertaining isn't he? He told us about this fancy and rather upscale um, place in King's Landing."

Arya sighed. "Is it a brothel?"

Theon cackled good-heartedly, rubbing his hands together. "A pity we did not ride to King's Landing," he said, in a not-so-sorry tone. "I heard there is a number of excellent brothels on the way."

"Greyjoy," said Cley Cerwyn, joining them. "Discussing brothels with the Lady Arya?" He shook his head. "Your task is to escort and protect the ladies, not boast about your manliness and mention brothels."

"Why didn't you go fighting wildlings?" said Arya curiously. According to a few rumours she had heard, Robb had trouble finding her and Lyarra proper escorts. Apparently many heirs preferred fighting to escorting.

"Father told me escorting you and Lady Lyarra is more an honour than killing some wildlings." He lowered his voice. "Us Cerwyns have not been fortunate as of late. My great grandfather found more pleasure praying in the godswood than on his bed making heirs; my grandfather died hours before my grandmother birthed my father; and my father's two marriages were not as successful as he hoped. He first married Lady Arrana Tallhart and they had Donnor and Jonelle. Then Arrana Tallhart died. Childbed fever." Arya nodded, impatiently wondering why she was being told this. "Donnor died in Robert's war," Cley went on. "He was seventeen. I was not even born. Realising he and Jonelle were the only Cerwyns left my father remarried. My mother died giving birth to me. Donnor died in a battle. My father feared I would die too, leaving Jonelle as heir, hence why I was instructed to be a part of your escort my lady. My father said I will not fight at all until I am married and with a son or two of my own. So here I am, your escort."

"You betrothed?"

"Not yet," said Cley cheerfully. "Maybe I'll be the first Cerwyn to wed a lady of the south. Preferably a fertile woman in my father's eyes."

"A Frey?" suggested Theon. "Ugly as stoats but good at having children."

Cley shuddered. "Imagine being saddled with a Frey bride. Food stores will be running out much faster and it isn't even winter."

"Winter is coming," said Arya on impulse. The Cerwyn heir and Theon glanced at her. " _We Do Not Sow_ ," said Theon with a lingering smirk. Cley grinned back at him. " _Honed and Ready_ ," Cley said cheerfully.

"Really?" said Arya, exasperated.

"What?" said Theon, feigning confusion. "I thought we were saying our House words aloud. Is that not what you did? Winter is coming?"

Arya rolled her eyes. Tempted to throw him overboard, Arya left the boys and went down to see Lyarra. "The captain said we are almost at King's Landing," she called, pushing open the cabin door. She almost groaned as she saw what Lyarra was doing silently.

Writing _more_ letters.

"Is that all you do now?" Arya complained, sitting down on a narrow bed.

"He did not let us say goodbye," murmured Lyarra. "I left Winterfell before we could say goodbye. Robb wouldn't even allow us that."

"He didn't let me say goodbye to Syrio either," Arya pointed out. "I don't know if Syrio is still at Winterfell or on his way home to Braavos." She hoped Syrio was still at Winterfell. "What Robb did was cruel to both of us, Lyarra, but we can't do nothing but pine for the past. Domeric _was_ your betrothed. Now you are set to be married to the crown prince and Domeric has his own future wife. Father said to me once that we all pay for our own mistakes. We are innocent Lyarra. We didn't play a part in Robb's foolish deed. One day Robb will pay." She glowered. "I hope he pays dearly for it."

Lyarra looked shocked. "Arya!"

"What?"

"You cannot wish ill upon your brother! Robb is acting cruelly, but we still can never wish ill upon one's family. Robb will learn soon enough that he was harsh, and hopefully he will apologise. That is the best we can hope for."

Arya huffed. "No it is not. When we'd get into fights, Father and Mother would send us to our rooms without tarts and cakes and then the next morning at dawn, we'd have to go to Father's solar and explain our actions. I want Robb to suffer. It is ill-wishing, but I can't help it! If I get forced to marry a prince, I'll never forgive Robb." Worry crossed her mind. "Will I be married to Prince Ormund?"

Lyarra shook her head. "Unlikely. Even if the king wishes it, his lords won't. In their eyes, one northern match is enough. You have nothing to fear Arya. You will probably return to Winterfell with Father and Mother in a couple of months." She paused. "Maybe when the wildling war is over, you'll be fostered at Bear Island – a few months or even a year. I heard Maester Luwin talk about it before we left. It isn't set in stone, but Maester Luwin works for Winterfell's best interests and his advice is usually taken."

Arya sighed with relief. She had absolutely no desire to remain at court for the rest of her life – and always in a dress! The horror. "Do you know Theon plans to go to brothels when we arrive?" she said, changing the subject.

"I am not surprised." Lyarra cracked a smile. "I can't believe Theon still chases after prostitutes. How is Cley?"

Arya shrugged. Cley Cerwyn wasn't particularly interesting; he was not boring like Rickard Ryswell (he was much nicer too), but wasn't very entertaining either. Besides, apart from the story about his family, Cley did not talk to her as much as he chatted with Captain Moreo and Theon. "His father's very protective," she commented. To her surprise, Lyarra broke into laughter. "What is so funny?" asked Arya.

"He told you the family story didn't he?" giggled Lyarra.

"He told you too?" Lyarra nodded. "Before we boarded the _Storm Dancer_ ," she explained, "Cley enlightened me with the story of House Cerwyn's misfortune. He didn't sound particularly upset that he wasn't permitted to fight the wildlings. He actually seemed happy to be here with us. Then again, he is probably afraid to go and fight in truth. He's been indulged by his father all his life. Being the sole male heir of House Cerwyn and all."

Arya considered it. "Cley doesn't seem that spoiled."

"True. A little proud though. All he did was talk about him and his family. He'd told me that his mother was Lord Halys Hornwood's favourite sister Lady Lysara, and he is Lord Hornwood's favourite nephew."

The door opened and Theon poked his head in. "We've almost arrived. Do you want to come and have a look at the view? The Tyroshi captain said that it's quite unhealthy to stay cooped up in the cabin all day."

"Why not?" Arya prodded Lyarra. "Come on Lyarra." The two of them followed Theon back on deck. Though Arya was still unhappy at being shipped away from home, the view of King's Landing's shores was impressive. Arya craned her head, spotting great manses and arbours, granaries and brick storehouses, taverns and inns and no doubt brothels. Arya looked around. The harbour was crowded with ships. There were other trading galleys, some like the ones in White Harbour and others more colourful, moving slowly to the docks; a large and beautifully ornate barge tied beside a fat-bellied ship with hulls black as tar; and at least a dozen – if not more – lean warships, their flags bearing the Baratheon stag waving wildly in the air as the strong wind swooped down on them.

As _Storm Dancer_ drew closer to a pier, Arya heard Captain Moreo bellow at his oarsmen in another language – Valyrian? At once, sixty oars lifted from the river, then reversed and backed water. The galley slowed. Another shout. The oars slid back inside the hull. As they thumped against the dock, a few men of the Tyroshi captain's crew jumped down to tie _Storm Dancer_ down. Captain Moreo bustled to Arya, Lyarra, Theon and Cley Cerwyn and said with a huge beam. "King's Landing, my lords, my ladies, as you did command, and never has a ship made a swifter or surer passage. Will you be needing assistance to carry your things to the castle?"

"Lord Stark's servants will do it," answered Theon, nodding in the direction of a small number of men in Stark livery waiting nearby.

Arya waited as Lyarra handed the captain the sixty stags that was promised. _It is a good thing Theon wasn't given charge of the coins,_ thought Arya. Knowing her father's ward, he would probably have spent half of it on an expensive prostitute when they were still at White Harbour. _It would've been a good thing. If Theon by chance had spent all our coin on prostitutes, maybe we would be forced to return to Winterfell._ Arya dismissed that musing almost at once. For one, Theon had coin of his own. For another, if the money was to disappear, the Manderlys might give an appropriate sum – which Robb would naturally pay back.

Arya sighed and forced herself to smile as she saw Jory Cassel approach. Might as well be ready for a new life…in King's Landing.

* * *

Far from feeling restful after a quick meal in Father's room, Arya was whisked to the Great Hall with Lyarra, Father and Mother. "The king is insisting on having court now that both of you have arrived," Mother had explained.

"Why?" Arya complained. "We just arrived!"

Mother's lips tightened. "He is the king. We obey the king, Arya."

Arya huffed. "We just arrived."

"I know that Arya." She glanced at Arya's plain, old (and bearable) grey, high-collared dress. "What happened to your blue gown?"

"What blue gown?"

Mother sighed. "The blue gown Lyarra sewed for you for your last name day. I thought you would look lovely wearing it."

"I cannot fit it anymore. I grew."

"I'll make you more dresses then. Maybe I will have a seamstress or two make you a new dress or two in the southron fashion. You'll need a special dress when Lyarra marries Prince Orys. There's still time I believe." She smiled.

"What's wrong with my dresses?" Arya said grumpily. "You wouldn't allow me to roam around King's Landing wearing my water dancing clothes. At least let me be comfortable in my old gowns." The rest of the walk from Father's chambers to the Great Hall was in uneasy silence.

The doors to the Great Hall swung open and Arya was instantly accosted by an ocean of stares and whispers. Arya refrained herself from scowling. She looked at Lyarra on her left. Lyarra was still thinner than usual, but she was smiling at the courtiers who gawped at them. _What are we?_ Arya thought. _Exotic animals taken from the Summer Islands?_ It was like the southroners have not seen a northerner in their lives before.

The sea of lords and ladies slowly parted ways, allowing Arya, her sister, their father and mother to move closer to the Iron Throne. Arya recognised the king at once. Whilst Lyarra looked thinner, the king looked fatter. A huge smile appeared on his face as he saw them. The king was in the midst of a conversation with a tall, grim-faced man, but when he noticed them, he waved the man away. "At long last Ned!" the king roared, beckoning Arya, Lyarra and their parents forward. He also gestured for someone – a young man no older than Lyarra – to walk towards the foot of the Iron Throne.

"Your Grace." Father stopped and bowed. Mother, Lyarra and Arya curtsied.

The king nodded impatiently. "Yes, yes." He studied Arya and Lyarra. "Both of you, welcome to court," he announced kindly. "Lady Lyarra, you are beautiful and look like your lady mother. Lady…Arya, you look like you late aunt Lady Lyanna." To Arya's alarm, the king's eyes grew misty. "She was a beauty, Lady Lyanna. You look like her, Lady Arya." Arya blushed as she felt a hundred pairs of eyes boring into her. "There will be places for both of you," said the king generously. "Both of you will serve in the queen's household until the wedding which will be held in a few days' time. After that, Lady Lyarra will have her own household befitting her rank as a princess and my good-daughter. Lady Arya may choose to remain in the household of my queen or to join her sister's household."

Father bowed again. "That is very generous Your Grace."

The king grunted. "Lady Lyarra," he said, addressing Lyarra. "Do you recall my son Orys?" The young man stepped forward and smiled at Lyarra. Arya looked at her. Lyarra smiled back at Prince Orys. Arya didn't know whether to roll her eyes or grimace. She decided to stare at the hunting tapestries instead.

"Court is over," the king decided, standing up. "Orys, take your betrothed for a walk in the gardens. Ser Arys, accompany them. Ned, come with me. Lady Stark, I think you should take Lady Arya around the Red Keep. The queen can do without your company for a few hours, eh?"

The queen nodded expressionlessly. Arya was slightly taken back. When she'd last glimpsed Queen Catelyn at Highgarden, the queen was quite kind and always had a smile on her face. _Her daughter was jilted_ , Arya reminded herself. _Of course she isn't happy right now_. Arya hoped the queen wouldn't scold her for her untidy needlework like Septa Mordane did. Do queens chastise their ladies for being bad at sewing? Arya hoped not.

"Will I have time to practise water dancing here?" Arya inquired, following her mother out of the Great Hall and into a maze of corridors. "Father will send Syrio here wouldn't he?"

Mother sighed. "You won't have time to practise water dancing," she said with a hint of faint annoyance.

"Father and I made an agreement-"

"-it does not hold in the south," Mother cut in tiredly. "I know you wish to um, continue with your martial pursuits Arya, but you are here to serve the queen as one of her ladies. It is a high honour Arya. A punishment for House Stark yes, but it is an honour nonetheless. Usually the queen chooses her own ladies – mostly it would be her friends and family – which is why northern ladies often miss the ah, opportunity to be ladies to the queen."

"We made an agreement," Arya repeated. "Father said we should always keep our word. He always did…" Her voice trailed off.

"He told me about your agreement. Sword instructor and in exchange, you will act more ladylike in certain situations. You promised you'd attend all lessons and that included sewing. Septa Mordane told me you haven't missed a lesson, but…" She hesitated. "Your sewing has not improved. Apparently a child of six can sew a few lines straighter than you."

Arya rolled her eyes. "It isn't that crooked now," she said defensively.

Mother laughed softly. "I am sure it isn't," she said kindly, squeezing her hand. She sighed again. "You are a true northerner," she murmured.

"Yes…?"

"You're a wolf. Say it's the worst of winters and you're alone on unfamiliar and perhaps hostile lands, what will you do to survive?"

"Fight all my enemies for meat and shelter?"

"What if another pack of wolves come? You will be alone."

"What do you want me to say?" said Arya, exasperated.

" _Integrate_ to survive, Arya. Sometimes you kill to survive, but other times you try and assimilate. Not the most effective for wolves, but for lords and ladies, it is. I know you don't like acting the part of a lady, but for your own good, _try_. As long as you remain in King's Landing, you'll be a proper lady." Before Arya could even protest, Mother rushed on and said. "House Stark cannot sink any further. Do you understand Arya? _Be a proper lady_."

"I'm not a proper lady!" said Arya angrily. "I never will be!"

" _Try_ ," hissed Mother, glancing around. "I apologise for being so demanding but I have to! I'm your mother and I know what court is like."

"How can you? You were hardly a courtier! You were only here for a couple of weeks before you went to Winterfell because you were pregnant with Robb! You told me that, remember?"

Mother's eyes fluttered shut for a moment. "I know more than you think, Arya Stark," she said finally. "Much more. Do you think you were the first highborn girl desiring to learn to fight? Do you know what it is like at court? I was a lady of the court before I married your father, Arya. When I was young, I was a friend of…of Elia Martell." Arya's eyes widened. Mother had never told her that. "Quite a close friend too. I served as her lady-in-waiting…until she sent me away." Mother then bit her lip. She shook her head. "I said too much," she muttered. She looked back at Arya. "Be a proper lady," she warned.

To avoid further argument, Arya forced herself to nod. "Yes Mother," she said, lying through her teeth. _I will not bend to be a proper lady_. "I promise I'll try to be a…a proper lady."

* * *

 **Even though Arya likes to fight more than sew, I think she can still offer good advice to Lyarra like any sister would. My own younger sister would sometimes give me good advice and our interests and personalities are pretty different.**

 **Now on the pace of the story, do you want it to slow down in the next few chapters (Eg. More chapters devoted to the three days before the wedding) or speed up (after a chapter or two it would skip to the wedding)? I don't mind slowing down or speeding up. Please tell me whether you want it slowed down or sped up! I'll go by the highest number of votes counted up by the time I upload the next chapter (hopefully Wednesday).**


	84. Catelyn VIII

Though Catelyn felt deeply humiliated and was still distressed at her Lyanna's jilting, she couldn't help but pity poor Lady Lyarra Stark. To Catelyn's knowledge, Lady Lyarra was greatly in love with Domeric Bolton, and him with her; not often were arranged betrothals and marriages joyful. It was a shame Lyarra Stark was ripped from her beloved betrothed. A great shame indeed.

"Must we dine with the Starks, Mother?"

Catelyn glanced at Lyanna was was sitting quietly beside her in a tiny circle of ladies also consisting of Minisa, Leyla, Melia, Rosaline, Lysa and Sansa. The Tullys had arrived two days ago (mostly for the wedding preparations) and surprisingly, Lysa showed up in the morning – a couple of hours before the Stark girls' arrival – with Sansa. Lysa hadn't descended from the Eyrie in _years_. Catelyn did wonder what finally brought Lysa out of hiding. Was she attempting to regain Sweetrobin from Stannis's hands? Catelyn doubted Lysa decided to show up to see her nieces and nephews and attend Orys and Lady Lyarra's wedding.

"Do you not wish to?" said Catelyn quietly. "Robb Stark is not here."

"I thought he would be," murmured Lyanna, staring blankly at the small patch of embroidery in front of her. "I thought he would come to King's Landing to give me an apology and an explanation. He was always honourable and kind. I'd never thought he would be a coward and hide from me."

"Forget Robb Stark," said Catelyn gently. "I know your father betrothed him to you since both of you were in cradles, but you are to be Willas Tyrell's bride. You will be the Lady of Highgarden soon enough. You will like Highgarden. It's said to be the centre of chivalry."

Lyanna nodded impassively. "Everyone says I am lucky to marry Willas."

"Everyone?"

"All my ladies mostly. The Lady Margaery reminds me daily of how fortunate I am to wed her brother. It is slightly annoying."

"She is trying to be sisterly to you."

"I suppose." She stabbed her needle into the linen cloth half-heartedly. Catelyn didn't have the heart to tell her to prick the cloth, not stab it as a soldier would to his enemy's body in battle. "Willas is kind," Lyanna admitted, "honest too. It is ah, wrong of me to criticise my future in-laws, but I know Lord Tyrell is quite power hungry. Boastful and foolish too. Lady Olenna calls him an oaf. Do you think Lord Tyrell will be foolish enough to try and have Willas crowned king?"

Catelyn was shocked. "By the Seven no! You have two brothers and if anything happens to them, there will be a Great Council to decide the next king. If we're to follow the succession laid out by the Targaryens, your uncle Lord Stannis will be king and his children will follow. I thought you learnt this already, Lyanna? If the succession is like the common succession in Westeros, you will be queen in your own right. Willas will be naught but your consort."

"I don't think Lord Tyrell will like that."

"Do not worry about the succession Lyanna. You have two brothers. Two very healthy brothers." Catelyn hesitated. "If you do not wish to dine with the Starks, I will excuse you if you wish."

Lyanna shook her head. "If I don't attend dinner, the conflict between our two families will only grow. We do not need that."

"Indeed. Will Lady Margaery be dining with us?"

Catelyn was relieved to say, "No. Lord Tyrell had invited Renly to dine with his family. As Lord Tyrell's daughter, Margaery will be supping there."

"It will be strange thinking of her as my good-aunt and good-sister."

"Catelyn," said Lysa suddenly. Catelyn and the ladies looked at her. For the last hour, Lysa was silent. For her to speak now was a mystery.

"Yes?"

"Something must be done about those horrible Freys! They are like rats!" She shuddered. Catelyn frowned. The Freys were despicable and sly, but she had met a few Freys who weren't cunning. The Lady Roslin Frey was certainly not wily. "I was accosted by Freys when I first arrived," Lysa continued, "Sansa too. A couple of them leered at us like drunkards and rapers. One even said that he would be a much better husband for Sansa than Ser Harrold Hardyng." She shuddered.

"How awful!" exclaimed Melia. "The Freys have pestered my father since I was born, always demanding marriages."

"I suppose they are here for the jousting tourneys," said Catelyn calmly.

"Can you not send them away?" requested Lysa.

Catelyn frowned. "That will be rude, Lysa. The Freys may not be the most liked people, but they are still noble. We cannot slight them. If you wish, I'll ensure that you and Sansa are kept away from the Freys. I'm afraid that will be the best that I can do for you. Lysa, if you do not mind me asking, why are you and Sansa here? I invited you here many times but you never responded."

"I was busy with Vale affairs," said Lysa stiffly.

Catelyn nodded slowly. "I see. It is good to see you again," she said honestly. "I am pleased to see you too, Sansa," she added. Her Arryn niece smiled back. "We'll all be going to the Vale soon," Catelyn told her, "for your wedding. Your uncle the king, me, all your cousins, other nobles all over Westeros – exciting is it not? Your wedding will be the talk of the century."

"Ser Harrold is not worthy of my daughter," said Lysa sharply. "A Hardyng! My daughter deserves to be wed to an heir of a Great House!" Catelyn sighed quietly. Her sister had changed greatly, mentally and physically. In the morning when she and Sansa arrived at King's Landing, Catelyn was shocked when she first saw her sister's appearance. The years hadn't been kind to Lysa. Lysa had lost her slender body and delicateness; her face had become pale and puffy and she'd painted and powdered it. Her small mouth was more petulant than before and her blue Tully eyes pale and watery rather than the sparkling, hopeful blue they once were. All that remained of Lysa's beauty was the great torrent of thick auburn hair that fell to her thick waist.

"Ser Harrold is charming, Mother," said Sansa tentatively.

"Charming!" chortled Lysa, glaring at her eldest daughter. "He won't love you! All he wants is to creep close enough to murder Sweetrobin and rule the Vale! He is Lady Waynwood's creature; a good for nothing upstart knight! Besides, he will never be faithful to you. He sired two bastards already."

Catelyn's lips tightened. She herself was still not endeared to Robert's bastard sons that resided in the Red Keep. She had hoped both of them would leave when they were of age, but no such luck. Gendry Waters spent most of his days making weapons and listening deeply to the songs of steel in the forge and Edric Storm a recurring sight in the training yard or in Renly's company.

"…and he will only have more," Lysa was ranting. "I know those young men. So unfaithful to their wives and they listen only to their cocks."

"At least Ser Harrold does not seem to demand his bastards be raised with his future trueborn children," Catelyn broke in. Leyla glanced at her. "Acknowledged them yes, but not raise them as his own." Lysa nodded vehemently. "I won't have them in the Eyrie," she said decidedly. "Ser Harrold can keep them in Ironoaks or wherever they live. Lady Waynwood dotes on him, Catelyn. She dotes on that boy more than she dotes on her own grandchildren."

"Ser Harrold will live in the Eyrie?" said Catelyn, surprised.

"Well of course." Impatience entered Lysa's voice. "Do you honestly think that I would part from my daughter? Stannis already robbed me of two children; I will not be robbed of another."

Catelyn nodded sympathetically and turned to Melia and Rosaline. "I'm glad to see both of you here. As you know, Lady Arya Stark is to join my household for at the most, a week. She is a year younger than you Melia, and a year older than you, Rosaline. I want both of you to help Lady Arya settle in. She has not been at court before and I don't want her to think it a prison. Melia, if Lady Lyarra needs aid of any sort, you will help her."

"Yes Aunt Catelyn," said the two girls in unison. Catelyn smiled. "They will join us tomorrow," she told them.

"Wouldn't Lady Lyarra be busy with wedding plans?" asked Rosaline.

"Most likely, yes. Lady Arya will not be though."

"Can Lady Arya play the flute, Aunt Catelyn? Melia sings wonderfully and I can play the harp. It'll be fun for the three of us to play and sing together when we're taking a rest from sewing."

"Lady Lyarra can play the harp and sing. I'm not sure about Lady Arya. Maybe she can play the harp. You can ask her tomorrow."

Rosaline nodded.

Catelyn stood up. "I must prepare myself for dinner," she said. She turned and looked at both her daughters. "Lyanna, Minisa, come. Lysa, Sansa, Leyla, Rosaline, Melia, I will see you tomorrow morning."

* * *

After taking a bite of roasted duck, Catelyn looked around. The table was more crowded than usual. Instead of the normal table they supped on, it was a circular one. "It is a time of peace," Robert had informed her. "No ranks and status and all that. We are all friends." To an extent, it was true. Robert and Lord Stark were in the midst of a deep conversation. It was no surprise that Robert had Lord Eddard seated on his right; he thought him more a brother than he viewed both his blood brothers. Next to Lord Stark was Lady Stark and Lady Arya, the latter bearing the oddest grimace Catelyn had ever seen. Then it was Lady Lyarra and Bran who sat next to Ormund, the two of them chatting happily. Following Ormund were Orys, Lyanna and Minisa and Stannis who sat on Catelyn's left. In family dinners which usually included the Starks, it was often Catelyn who ended up sitting beside her grim-faced good-brother Lord Stannis.

Tired of eating, Catelyn turned to Stannis. "You are quiet my lord."

Stannis arched an eyebrow. "We are supping my queen. Supper is meant to be a quiet time when we eat and drink is it not?"

Catelyn inwardly sighed. What use was conversing with him? He was still in a bad mood. One would think he would feel upset at declaring his lady wife's guilt; Stannis was displeased Lady Cersei's trial was not to be held any earlier.

"My queen?" Stannis was waiting for an answer.

"You are right of course my lord Stannis," said Catelyn quickly. Supping was a time to talk as well, but arguing with Lord Stannis Baratheon over what he would consider trivial matters was like arguing with a stone wall. "I hope you're finding that roasted pig succulent."

"It is satisfactory," came Stannis's short response.

"I um, see."

"What'll happen to Aunt Cersei?" inquired Ormund suddenly. Everyone looked at him in surprise. "Will she still be locked away?"

"Ormund!" said Catelyn sharply. "That is not an appropriate question."

"Nonsense Cat," said Robert with a hearty chuckle. Catelyn frowned at him. "It is inappropriate," she repeated. "Ormund is a boy. He does not need to hear all of this…this matter concerning Lady Cersei."

"Bah!" Robert dismissed her words with a wave of his hand. "They will all find out anyway." He looked at the children. "Lady Cersei will be put on trial soon," he confirmed. "After the wedding." He glanced at Stannis. "Stannis here wants her to be punished justly. No trial by combat as such. We are still discussing that."

Catelyn stood up. She was in no mood to discuss Cersei Lannister's trial. Every time she dined with Stannis and Robert, that subject would be broached, and it'd end in an argument every time. "Forgive me Robert," she said quietly. "I think I'll retire early for the night. Busy day tomorrow."

Robert nodded. "Wedding to prepare for."

Lady Stark stood up too. "I am not hungry either," she said quickly. Her purple eyes met Catelyn's. "Your Grace, allow me to accompany you to your chambers. It will be no trouble."

Catelyn's lips tightened. _Peace_ , she reminded herself. To forgive another's tiny or large mistakes was one step towards peace. "I would like your company thank you," she said as amicably as she could manage, which was not so difficult.

"My daughter will marry your son," remarked Lady Stark. "We will be family."

"Are you accompanying me to discuss just that?" said Catelyn dryly. "Since you and Lord Stark arrived and broke the news, all I heard every day was my son and your daughter's wedding. It is the talk of court…and Robert's favourite subject at meal times. Once Robert liked discussing which animals are easier to hunt during summer; now he enjoys talking about the wedding."

"Not even wine?" Lady Stark hesitated. "My apologies Your Grace."

"Nothing to apologise," said Catelyn with ease. "Oh he still likes talking about a number of different wines he used to fancy. That conversation is usually after an afternoon of bad hunting." Now it was her turn to hesitate. "He once told me that lemon water tastes like…piss in comparison to Arbor gold."

Lady Stark snorted. "You stopped him drinking did you not, Your Grace? I was told that is a great achievement."

Catelyn smiled briefly. "That is what I will be remembered for," she said with a tinge of sarcasm. "Bearing four children and preventing Robert from drinking his fill in wine. Knowing the maesters, they will probably twist it into a great story – Robert was a strong king who never touched a cup of wine after he ascended the Iron Throne. A lovely little story."

"I doubt that will happen. Your Grace…what do you truly think of the wedding that will be held in a few days? It is your eldest son's wedding and I don't believe all the lords can make it. It will take the northern lords a few weeks if they decide to ride to King's Landing, but there is also a war against the wildlings. When it is between a royal wedding and fighting wildlings, the majority of them will choose battle." She sighed gloomily. "I wish Robb could attend his sister's wedding.. It's a great pity that he cannot make it. Then again…" Her voice trailed off. Catelyn said nothing. What was done, was done. There must be peace and remembering every disagreement of the past would not help at all.

"Robb will see his sister again," Catelyn told Lady Stark. "There will be trips to Winterfell and I'm certain he will come and visit King's Landing."

"There is something you must know about Arya, Your Grace."

Catelyn frowned. "What is it?" She didn't remember the middle Stark girl quite as well as she recalled Lyarra. She knew that Lady Arya looked like her aunt Lady Lyanna Stark with her brown hair and Stark grey eyes. Apart from that…

Lady Stark looked uncomfortable. "I think it is best if I tell you more about her. I don't want you to be um, shocked tomorrow. Arya isn't like your nieces or your daughters. She despises sewing and would do anything to escape it. She has wolf blood in her veins Your Grace. I know it is a terrible excuse – a truly terrible one." She bit her lip. "I just…I hope you can understand."

Catelyn remained silent. _She is the woman responsible for all this trouble_ , she reminded herself. _Her bastard niece sneaking into Robb's bed. Now she's asking for her daughter to be excused from sewing._ She almost frowned, but Lady Stark was watching her like a hawk. There was no point dwelling in the past. For weeks she avoided Lady Stark's company, believing her to be manipulative and cunning like so many southron lords and ladies. Perhaps she was too hasty in deciding Ashara Stark's investment in revenge. Ashara Stark had always been a good friend; lying and treachery didn't seem to be part of her. Then again, some people just happen to be excellent liars and deceivers.

"Your Grace?" prompted Lady Stark.

"All girls must learn to sew," said Catelyn coolly. "Can Lady Arya sing? Play an instrument or two?"

Lady Stark looked taken back. "Um, of course Arya can sing! She was taught to, but she rarely sings at Winterfell."

"If she dislikes sewing, she can sing. Or read even."

"Your Grace, I did not do what you think I did. If you are still angry at me, so be it, but please don't take your anger out on Arya. She's not responsible; she's here to pay for House Stark's crimes. Children should not pay for their parents, sisters or brothers' mistakes. You might not want a girl like Arya in your household, but she doesn't want to be here either. I'm imploring, from one mother to another. It will be cruel to punish a child who did no wrong. I also desire peace between our Houses as there once was before…before what Robb did. It will bring bad luck to Orys and Lyarra if we attend their wedding still angry, upset and holding grudges against each other."

Catelyn nodded. Weddings were happy occasions, not sad ones. Even the most reluctant of marriages would yield joy in the celebrations. "I will never inflict my anger on a child," she said quietly. "Children should not suffer for the crimes that have been committed by their parents, siblings or relatives."

* * *

"It is an honour and a privilege to be in your household Your Grace. I thank all the gods for such an honour." Lady Arya Stark looked practically sullen, standing in front of Catelyn and reciting those words, her tone dull and unhappy. Her grey eyes showed nothing but misery. _Poor girl_ , thought Catelyn, pitying her. _Two days and already despondent. Poor girl._ She glanced at Lady Lyarra. The elder Stark girl did not look any happier either.

"Welcome to my household," said Catelyn kindly. She gestured for her to sit. "I hope you will be happy here." Lady Arya mumbled thanks and made her way to a vacant chair between her sister and Rosaline. "We're sewing clothes for the poor Lady Arya," Catelyn explained. She pointed at the two large baskets in the centre of their circle of ladies. "The one on the left here is full of material and needles of all sizes you can use The other one is for completed clothes. You can decide what you wish to sew." Catelyn smiled encouragingly at Lady Arya.

"Perhaps another cloak?" suggested Lyanna. "With winter approaching, cloaks will be very useful." Lady Arya looked uncertain. She picked up a piece of linen, a needle and some thread. Catelyn watched her examine them slowly.

After what seemed like an hour, Arya gingerly jabbed her needle into the linen. Catelyn returned to her own sewing. For some reason, she could not concentrate. Was it due to the excitement of the royal wedding? Perhaps.

The door opened. Catelyn looked up. "Orys?" she said, surprised. What was he doing here? She was even more astonished to see him in the company of the two young men that escorted the Stark girls to King's Landing. Catelyn recognised the Greyjoy heir at once. One would not easily forget his smirking smile. Was her son already friends with them? Catelyn didn't know whether to be joyful or dismayed. Usually it was Ormund making friends; Orys was more of Stannis's temperament. Befriending a Greyjoy though…

"Mother," Orys greeted. "I come to ask Lady Lyarra to walk with me. I thought I would show her the godswood."

Catelyn nodded. She looked to the ladies for suitable chaperones for her future good-daughter. Apparently it was unfashionable now for older ladies to watch an engaged lady. "Melia, Lady Roslin," she decided, "Please accompany Lady Lyarra. Both of you are excused from your duties." Lady Roslin Frey was four years older than Lady Lyarra and patient, quiet and virtuous – an ideal chaperone. As for her niece Melia Tully, she'd keep Lady Roslin engaged in lively conversation. Melia's knowledge for court gossip was quite astounding, and she hadn't been at court a long time. She would enjoy the life of a courtier.

The three young ladies rose and curtsied to Catelyn. A minute or two after the three of them left with Orys, the Greyjoy heir and the northerner, the remaining ladies began talking to each other quietly. Catelyn smiled. It wasn't silent and the chatter was not loud either – just the way she liked. She glanced around. Her eyes met Lady Stark's.

 _Time to forgive and forget._ Catelyn looked at Lady Arya who was staring at her linen cloth vaguely. "Lady Arya," Catelyn spoke. "I have heard many songs since I was a child. Songs from the Riverlands, the Reach, Dorne and the Vale. I am quite interested in hearing a northern song. Do you know any?"

For the first time, Lady Arya brightened. " _The Time of Wolves_ is my favourite," she said brightly. "Do you wish to hear it?"

Catelyn smiled and nodded. "I will love to hear it," she said sincerely.

* * *

 **Okay, according to the reviews, most of you want the pace to speed up a bit? I'm happy to do that. Anyway, I don't actually remember reading if Arya can sing or not well? I'm assuming she _can_ sing, but probably dislikes it because she thinks it a feminine activity or maybe she's afraid she'll be compared to Lyarra. **

**I'll need a time jump eventually once the wedding and Cersei's trial are dealt with otherwise we'll be moving at a snail's pace. Out of interest, would you prefer the time jump in Part 3 or would you prefer a nice finish to Part 3 with an appendix and make Part 4 say seven to eight months later? I'm interested in your thoughts about this. Normally I wouldn't ask, but I remember when I was writing Part 1, someone mentioned something about time jumps sacrificing character development.**


	85. Davos V

Sweat poured down the back of Davos's neck as he galloped up to the familiar sight of Storm's End's massive outer curtain wall. He was not an excellent rider; a boat would've been the preferred method of travel.

However, in this instance riding was quicker than sailing and Lord Stannis had ordered him to ride speedily to Storm's End with two others. It seemed that after a conversation with the king, Lord Stannis had changed his plans on arresting his wife. Lady Baratheon would still be charged with adultery, but in King's Landing instead of Storm's End. According to Lord Stannis, the king suggested luring Lady Baratheon to King's Landing as a guest in the wedding. She would have no reason to suspect trouble in that way.

The portcullis slowly rose and Davos rode into the courtyard. "Lord Seaworth! Lord Seaworth!" Maester Jurne was running towards him, gasping for breath and red in the face. "You were not expected!"

"I know." Davos dismounted from his exhausted steed. He pulled a letter from his pocket and handed it to the maester. "This is from Lord Baratheon."

Maester Jurne opened it. His eyebrows rose. "Forgive me Lord Seaworth, but I find this…odd. You rode here to escort Lady Baratheon and her children to King's Landing for Prince Orys's wedding?"

"It is Lord Baratheon's orders."

"I…see. You will leave tomorrow at dawn? Lord Baratheon had written that he expects to see you and his family at King's Landing for the ceremony, and it takes at least five days for you all to ride there."

"That is correct, Maester." Lord Stannis estimated everything to the point. At a time like this, Davos wondered if Lord Stannis planned everything exactly like he would in a time of war. Chances were, he would. "Lord Baratheon is quite keen to have his lady wife and children with him in time for the wedding."

"Lady Baratheon will not be pleased, Lord Seaworth."

Lady Baratheon was never happy. Davos nodded. "Lord Baratheon gave me ah, instructions on how to deal with her. Forgive me Maester, but I must inform Lady Baratheon and the children now. To give them time to pack." Maester Jurne gave an understanding nod and Davos set off to Shireen's chambers. Informing all the Baratheon children of the wedding could wait; taking that significant book from Lady Shireen's room could not. Before Davos could knock on Lady Shireen's door, Devan who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, called out, "Lady Shireen is not in there, Father! She's in the library with Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana! She goes there with them every day after breakfast!" Davos stared at him in surprise. Devan grinned sheepishly.

"What are you doing here?" inquired Davos. "Shouldn't you be training?"

"Why are _you_ here Father?"

"Lord Stannis's orders." Davos paused. "You should pack. You'll leave at dawn tomorrow for King's Landing with me, Lady Baratheon and her children. Do you know where your older brothers are?"

Devan frowned. "Um…Dale has returned to the Rainwood and Maric is already at King's Landing with Lord Baratheon. Allard and Matthos are still here. Do you want me to tell them to prepare to leave for King's Landing too?"

Davos nodded. He thought all his sons as sons, not soldiers, but they would be helpful in distracting the Baratheon children at King's Landing if Lady Baratheon was to be arrested the moment she set foot in the Red Keep. Davos suspected it'd happen. Lord Stannis was patient, but in his own way. When it came to justice, he would not wait. If a rapist was caught, Lord Stannis would have him gelded a few minutes after he confessed; if a poacher was captured, Lord Stannis would cut off one of his hands swiftly and without hesitation; and an adulterous woman?

"Will Lord Baratheon be alright with us attending the wedding?"

"He will not complain aloud if he's displeased," Davos replied. Especially when his mind was occupied with dealing with the Lannisters. "I will see you at supper. I must go and find Lady Shireen." Changing directions, he went to the library.

As Devan had told him, Lady Shireen was sitting at a table with the Baratheon twins, her eyes twinkling with excitement. "Lord Davos!" she said, spotting Davos at once. Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana turned and smiled at him. "I thought you were at King's Landing with our father. Is he here too?"

"Your lord father sent me here," said Davos, smiling back at them. "He's a busy man at King's Landing, being the Hand of the King and all that." _How can I ask the Lady Shireen about the book with Steffon and Cassana here?_ "Your cousin's to be a husband soon," Davos plunged ahead. Might as well tell them the wedding first. "I am instructed by your lord father to tell you that all of you will be guests. Would that not be exciting? However, you must be ready to leave tomorrow at dawn. It's quite a journey to King's Landing hence the early start."

"Will I attend too?" said Shireen nervously.

"Of course," Davos assured her. "You're Lord Stannis's eldest daughter. You're required to attend your cousin's wedding!"

"I wish Father told us earlier…" murmured Lady Cassana. "We don't have a lot of time to decide what to wear."

"You both have plenty of pretty dresses," Lord Steffon pointed out. "It will not be very difficult to select a few for the wedding celebrations. It wouldn't matter if you wear the same dress that you've worn before. No one would notice. Besides I believe it is the bride who will be the centre of attention."

Lady Cassana responded to him. Taking the opportunity, Davos turned to Lady Shireen. "Milady Shireen," he said softly. "Do you still have that book your father gave to you before he left?"

Lady Shireen nodded. "Father wants it now, doesn't he?" Leaving the twins in the midst of a conversation, she left the library with Davos. "Father told me that I have to protect the book," said Lady Shireen, glancing around cautiously. "He told me that it is very important and if it ended up in enemy hands, it will be very bad. Did you come here to collect the book?"

"Yes milady," said Davos truthfully.

"My father never told me why he needed the book protected. In my rooms too! If he feared the book would disappear, why not keep it in his rooms? Why did he not take it with him?"

"Every powerful man has enemies at court milady Shireen. If one of your lord father's enemies take that book…" Davos shook his head. "It is better that you do not know milady. Much better."

"That is what everyone says to me." Lady Shireen looked gloomy. "Even Devan said that to me once. By the Seven I'm fourteen! Must I still be kept in the dark in matters that Steffon probably knows about?"

"Your brothers and sisters do not know about the book," Davos assured. "Only you were told to protect it." They reached her chambers.

Lady Shireen seemed thoughtful. "I've never been to King's Landing," she said, opening the chamber door. "I have never left Storm's End before. People are nice to me now though. They talk to me more and I am no longer confined to my room all day. I was given flowers too." She blushed. "Evening stars and roses. The roses were from my cousin Ser Andrew Estermont's newest squire Zachery Frey. It had been nice of him to give me flowers."

Davos smiled, but felt a twinge of uncertainty. It was nice of this Zachery Frey to pay attention to Lady Shireen, but what if it wasn't genuine kindness? What if he wished to woo Lady Shireen only because she was Lord Stannis's eldest child? Lord Walder Frey would cackle with glee at the match.

"I will return with the book," Lady Shireen promised. She went to the chest at the foot of her bed and dug around for a second. Davos waited patiently near the doorstep. It wasn't long before Lady Shireen handed him the large, heavy book. It was already wrapped in two layers of brown cloth. "Father never told me why he wanted that book hidden in my room," said Lady Shireen quietly.

Davos cradled the book in his arms as if it was a precious babe. "I cannot say," he said uncomfortably. He hated not giving Lady Shireen the answers she craved, but he had sworn to keep the Lannister matter secret. The small councillors were aware of it, as were the king and Lord Lannister and maybe even a few lords and ladies of the court, but the Baratheon children were not. It was not Davos's place to reveal any of the Lannister matter to them and he intended to keep it that way – even if it was Lady Shireen who wanted to know.

* * *

"Onion Knight! I _insist_ we rest in a castle before we journey any further! Onion Knight! Are you even listening to me, you insolent fool?"

Davos slowed down and turned his horse around to face Lady Baratheon who was turning out to be irritating and unwanted company. Instead of riding a horse, Lady Baratheon chose to travel in a big, lavishly decorated wheelhouse with Lady Cassana, Myrcella and Tommen. The elder boys were allowed to ride as was Lady Shireen. "She doesn't like to look at me," Lady Shireen had explained when Davos dared himself to ask. "She oft says I belong in Dragonstone with the other dragon gargoyles rather than in Storm's End."

"Onion Knight!" Lady Baratheon shouted imperiously, sticking her head out of the window. "Do you not hear me?" Davos pulled his horse into a halt and said as calmly as he could manage, "Lord Baratheon wants us in King's Landing. He does not want us to dwindle, milady. Besides, we are almost there." He glanced at Lord Steffon. "Unless milord wishes to stop for a short rest?"

Lord Steffon shook his head. "Father expects us in King's Landing. I don't want to keep him waiting. We can rest when we get to King's Landing."

Davos nodded. "We will keep riding then." Ignoring Lady Baratheon's grumble, he urged his horse to trot on. Usually Devan would ride with him, but he'd chose to ride beside a cloaked Lady Shireen. Lady Baratheon only allowed Lady Shireen to ride on the condition that her face was hidden by her cloak's hood. It was quite a hot day and poor Lady Shireen endured the heat. Steffon rode nearby with their brother Robert and Allard and Matthos rode behind them. Riding silently behind the wheelhouse were four of Lord Stannis's most trusted men.

"…I cannot wait to see my cousins," Davos overhead Lady Shireen say. "I hope my cousin Orys will be happy with his bride."

"What of you my lady? Will you be a bride one day?"

Davos glanced discreetly at Lady Shireen. Her cheeks were pink. "I don't think so," she said so softly Davos almost missed it. "Unless my father desires for me to take the path of matrimony, I will be satisfied living the rest of my life at Storm's End as an unmarried woman. If my brother finds me a burden, I am confident I'll be accepted into a motherhouse to be a septa. If I do take that path, I might be the one teaching Steffon's children when the time comes."

The Onion Knight felt a pang of pity towards Lady Shireen. She was no beauty, but what was beauty compared to her sweet nature? He shook his head. It would be centuries until knights and lords choose their wives due to their kindness and virtues than their beauty and wealth. His thoughts turned to his own wife. Marya had always been patient with him – more than patient. Lately, Davos had spent a great deal of time at Stannis's side, whether it was at King's Landing or at Storm's End. It was much more time than Davos spent with his family.

"Lord Davos," said Steffon, riding up to Davos. "Please forgive my lady mother for her earlier words. She is only a little cross. We've been riding for almost four days with very little rest. She is stifled and bored I believe."

"Thank you milord," said Davos, smiling at him. "People have said much worse words to me before." He watched him stare silently ahead. "Milord?" Davos said a bit cautiously. "Is there something on your mind?" He'd never had a deep chat to the heir of Storm's End before.

"Shireen," said Steffon promptly, glancing at Shireen who was talking happily to Devan. "She's never been to King's Landing before. My lord father calls court a den of wolves. Lords and ladies can be cruel to those…those like Shireen and our uncle Tyrion. I once asked him how he wasn't affected by cruel words. Ser Davos, do you know what my uncle said to me?"

"No milord. What did he say to you?"

Steffon Baratheon closed his eyes for a moment. "Uncle Tyrion had thought for a moment," he remembered. "Then he said, 'I'll never forget what I am. A dwarf. I am a dwarf. The rest of the world won't forget it. I wear it like armour, and it can never be used to hurt me.' He then grinned at me and said, 'only fools judge other people by their appearance.'"

"Wise advice. I would have said the same thing milord. Lady Shireen is strong, milord Steffon. Mere words will not harm her."

"I am her brother. I want to protect her…I am not sure how to. I cannot just go to those who insult her and declare my intentions to duel for her honour. My lord father will think me an idiot."

Davos did not agree aloud. "From my knowledge milord Steffon, I do not think your lord father believes in knights in shining armour. He would want your sister to try and bear the rudeness as he does – with stoniness."

Steffon didn't look so certain. "What if she cannot my lord?"

"Have faith in Lady Shireen," counselled Davos. "She's stronger than you think. I'm certain of it, milord Steffon."

* * *

A swarm of butterflies fluttered violently in Davos's stomach. He hadn't felt so nervous since…since he evaded the Redwyne fleet's blockade of Shipbreaker Bay to smuggle onions and salted fish into Storm's End. When he sailed, it was during the dead of night. Anything could have happened; capture, execution or death by drowning being only a few.

Making his way to Maegor's Holdfast behind Lady Baratheon and her children should not cause butterflies to flap wildly in his stomach. _Maybe it's because I am aware it is a trap_ , thought Davos as they approached the drawbridge. Stannis had ordered him to lead Lady Baratheon into Maegor's Holdfast where the arrest was to be made. _Must the children witness it?_ Davos pondered sadly. _All six of them are innocent. None of them deserve to watch their mother's arrest._ There was no use – or any time – in telling Lord Stannis Baratheon. Currently his first concern was to ensure the arrest of Lady Baratheon. His children's emotional state meant naught much to the stern Stannis Baratheon.

"What are we doing here Father?" asked Allard, his brown eyes flickering from the Kingsguard knight at the end of the drawbridge to Davos. "I do not think that my brothers and I are um, welcome here."

"This is Maegor's Holdfast," Devan informed Allard. "We are in the heart of the Red Keep. It contains the king and queen's chambers."

Allard looked at Davos. "I don't think we should go further Father. Perhaps it'll be best for Matthos, Devan and I to go to your chambers maybe?"

"Milord Steffon," said Davos, seizing the opportunity to possibly save all of the children from the pain that awaited them. "Why not take your siblings to ah, visit your royal cousins? They must be excited to see all of you."

Lady Baratheon stopped, turned and frowned at him. "My patience with you is wearing thin Onion Knight," she said sharply. "If you wish to keep your tongue, I suggest you refrain from giving bad advice to _my_ children." She turned again and continued making her way across the drawbridge. As Davos followed, he noticed his hands shaking.

"Are you afraid of heights, Onion Knight?" said Lady Shireen softly.

 _No_ , Davos wanted to say. _I'm afraid you and your siblings will break when you all see your lady mother arrested_. "Aye," he forced himself to lie. "A little milady. A little." He purposely glanced down at the dry moat lined with a bed of formidable iron spikes and managed a shudder.

"Do not look down," advised Lady Shireen. "Look straight ahead at that knight of the Kingsguard. Can you see him Lord Davos? Don't look down. Can you please tell me which knight of the Kingsguard he is?"

"Ser Brynden Tully," murmured Davos. It must've been Stannis's suggestion to put the Blackfish on guard at the drawbridge in case Lady Baratheon managed to run from the Queen's Ballroom to the drawbridge. The Strongboar of Crakehall a westerman was probably posted somewhere else, and Garth Greysteel, Ser Balon Swann and Ser Barristan the Bold nearby. Even though the royal wedding was in a day's time, the Lannister threat was great and the king, the queen and probably every member of the royal family were followed almost everywhere in the castle by no less than two guards.

" _The Blackfish?_ " Shireen gasped, her eyes growing wider. "He is a hero! Robert spoke about him many times! Him and Ser Barristan the Bold!"

Davos chuckled. "Heroes and knights of the Kingsguard milady." He didn't feel any better as they came closer to Ser Brynden Tully. _Does the Blackfish know that Lady Baratheon is about to be arrested?_ Of course he would know. He would have gotten an inkling if it at least.

"You're the Blackfish?" Lady Shireen inquired, looking up at Ser Brynden Tully with fascination like all the young squires do. Ser Brynden looked back at her. He seemed bemused. "Aye my lady. And you are?"

"Shireen!" snapped Lady Baratheon, already hovering near the door. "We have all had a long journey in a short time." She glared at Davos. "Onion Knight here is insisting my husband requests our presence before we can settle in our rooms as all civilised lords and ladies do. Do not test my patience, Shireen. Come along or I will change my mind and send you back to Storm's End."

Shireen bowed her head and meekly followed her siblings and mother into the heart of the Red Keep. Davos nodded at Ser Brynden before entering with Allard, Matthos and Devan. Davos could not fathom why Lady Baratheon's arrest was to be made in the Queen's Ballroom. Surely Lady Baratheon would be suspicious as Stannis would usually request her meet him in the Tower of the Hand. Perhaps in fourteen years of marriage, Lady Baratheon still didn't know her husband well.

Silently, Lady Baratheon led the way to the Queen's Ballroom. Davos could not help but look around with interest like Lady Shireen and his sons did. He'd never had the occasion to set foot in the Queen's Ballroom. It was only half as big as the Small Hall in the Tower of the Hand. Everywhere Davos looked, he saw himself in the many beaten silver mirrors behind the wall sconces. The walls were panelled with richly carved wood and high arched windows sat along the south wall. Lord Stannis stood with a few men in the middle of the Queen's Ballroom. Above them was an empty gallery. When Davos saw Stannis, he wanted to tell his sons to take all the Baratheon children and run to the other end of the Red Keep. Lord Stannis wouldn't understand. Knowing him, he would probably retort, "Better for all the children to see the truth with their own eyes rather than hear it in rumours from the other lords in this pit of snakes."

Was it? Was it better for children to see the truth with their own eyes?

"Lord Husband," said Lady Baratheon irritably. "You summoned us. Without a word of warning, you _ordered_ us to leave Storm's End to come here. What is it? It must be important if you wouldn't even allow me to rest."

Lord Stannis stared at her coldly. "Lady Cersei of House Lannister," he said as the four men behind him stepped forward. One grabbed Lady Cersei and held her still as another clapped her in chains. The Lannister lady shrieked with rage. "I'M YOUR WIFE!" she screamed at Stannis. "WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?"

"You are under arrest," Stannis said calmly, untouched by her shouts of anger. Davos snuck a glance at the Baratheon children. Steffon was staring at his father, wide-eyed and in shock; Cassana and Robert too seemed to be alarmed; Myrcella and Tommen huddled together, scared; and Shireen had also froze on the spot in astonishment and fear. "You are under arrest," Lord Stannis repeated stonily, "on the grounds of committing incest and adultery." He looked at the two men Cersei Lannister was sandwiched between. "Take her to the dungeons where she'll stay till the day of the trial." His gaze moved to Davos. "Lord Davos, come. We've got a number of matters to discuss."

"What…what about your children milord?" Davos heard himself choke out.

Lord Stannis stared at him. "The queen's waiting for them," he said at last. "All of them will remain in the king and queen's care until the trial is over. Then some of them will return to Storm's End. Come, Lord Davos. We have the trial to ready ourselves for. Once the wedding is over, I will finally have justice."

* * *

 **I actually thought earlier this week that I was writing too slow again - turns out I had an extra chapter ready the whole time! Yes, there will be a Daenerys chapter (2 chapters' time). I planned one earlier except I wasn't happy with it so I'm writing a new Dany chapter now.** **I needed to get Cersei to King's Landing around the time of the wedding hence this chapter.**

 **BigStevie, I was thinking of having Jon lost beyond the Wall actually. He _was_ to be connected to Ygritte somehow (that was the original reason for writing her in), but I'll decide more about Jon later on. I'm always interested in hearing your ideas :) **


	86. Lyarra IV

At the crack of dawn, Lyarra groggily dragged herself from her bed to the high window. It was the day of her wedding. Breathing deeply, Lyarra pulled the black, velvet curtains – decorated with petite golden stags, much to her distaste – away and stared outside, expecting to see the bright, warm sun creeping from the long horizon to announce a glorious day.

Lyarra frowned.

It was raining.

Not sprinkling or drizzling or even a light shower; it was pouring. Everywhere in the wide sky Lyarra examined, she saw large, grey, thunderous clouds banding together. The yellow sun was nowhere to be seen. _Is this a sign?_ Lyarra wondered, pulling the curtains over the window. _Is this a sign from the old and new gods that I'm not meant to marry Prince Orys Baratheon?_ From what she heard, her parents were married sometime in spring and the weather was perfect; sunny, the sky as azure as sparkling sapphires without a speck of grey cloud in sight. The sun even smiled benevolently upon everyone in Lord Renly and Lady Margaery's wedding in Highgarden, and _their_ wedding was in autumn.

 _Why must it rain on my wedding?_

The door opened before Lyarra could contemplate further on the rainy omen. Mother bustled in with Father and they were followed in by a yawning Arya and an excited Bran. Lyarra forced herself to smile. "Father, Mother, Arya, Bran. Good to see you here so early."

"You'll be married in a few hours," said Mother, embracing her. "Soon you will be a princess. Remember when you were a child and pretending to be a princess in those games you played with your brothers? You'll be a princess in truth when you wed Prince Orys Baratheon."

"I played the part of princess because the boys wanted to play knights and you know Arya will refuse to play princess. I never wanted…I never thought…"

"You never wanted to leave the North?" guessed Arya hopefully.

"You never thought you'd marry a prince?" suggested Bran.

Lyarra laughed and smiled at her brother and sister. Arya would hold onto her northern roots forever; Bran was on the road to knighthood and was happy here in King's Landing. _At least I will have family near me after the wedding_. It'd be nice to spend some more time with Bran. It felt like years since she had last given him a hug and inquired about his day. Father and Mother would also remain at court, but they would be extremely busy with their own duties. And Arya? She was also a welcome sight.

"You have a busy day today," remarked Mother, striding to the window. With a swift movement, she had pulled the curtains away. She stared at the thousands of rain shards drumming down on the window. "It looks like the jousting and melee will have to wait."

"The tournament is tomorrow anyway," Lyarra pointed out.

Mother nodded. "Indeed. Hopefully the weather will be better tomorrow. Half the young men here are intending to prove themselves in the joust or the melee, I believe. It will be a disappointment to all if the tournament is postponed due to a heavy downpour of rain." She shook her head. "No use wishing for a sunny day at this time." She looked at Lyarra. "You have a busy day today," she said again.

"I know Mother." Lyarra was aware that many Great Houses carried a number of wedding traditions with them throughout the centuries. She did not know that the day of her own wedding would be filled with traditional ceremonies of House Baratheon _and_ House Stark. "I think I will bathe."

"Yes. Would you like us to wait for you?"

"Can…can Arya stay?"

"What?" said Mother and Arya in unison. "Of course," said Mother, recovering first. "I've already had the maidservants fetching hot water. We will come back in an hour Lyarra." She paused and looked at Arya. "We will come back with a dress for you too," she promised. Arya made a face.

"Why do you want me here?" said Arya curiously, following Lyarra to another room where there was a huge wooden tub in the middle.

"You are the most truthful," answered Lyarra, pulling her white shift over her head before she climbed into the big wooden tub.

"I see…"

"I also want your company. All Mother will talk about is how lovely the south is and I will love it here and will be a good princess to the realm."

Arya rolled her eyes. "Of course she will. You know I won't lie, Lyarra. It's been two days and I still hate it here. The queen is kind to me. She lets me sing or read instead of sew like all her other ladies." Her brief grin disappeared. "It's not at all like home though. No Syrio, no sneaking around…no Nymeria." She blinked. "Oh I shouldn't talk like that. It's your wedding day after all."

Lyarra sank deeper into the tub, allowing the hot water to wash over her body, arms and legs. "Keep complaining," she said with a smile. "That is another reason I want you here."

"To hear me _complain?_ "

"I'm receiving new ladies and companions today. None of them are going to be brave enough to complain aloud. Besides, they won't. They are all southroners. It is home to them here. Anything else you want to complain about?"

Arya looked suspicious. "What about you? I hardly hear you complain. Who do you complain to? Do you complain at all?" She narrowed her eyes. "You know it'll feel much better after you complain."

"I don't think I will ever be happy here," said Lyarra quietly, finally giving in to her mixed emotions. "You are right, Arya. King's Landing isn't home. At least you will be able to return to Winterfell one day when the king decides we've all been punished enough for Robb's crime. I'll be stuck here forever. I'll have to deal with liars, deceivers, lickspittles and tricksters my entire life."

"I'll be married."

Lyarra and Arya looked at each other and burst out laughing.

"I'll insist on being married in pants," Arya declared. "I will not marry wearing a tight, constricting gown."

"I look forward to seeing that," giggled Lyarra, rising from the wooden tub. "It will be a memorable wedding, you in pants." One of her new handmaids (she had received three from the queen yesterday) Cara, gently dried her with a towel. She was rather shy, Cara. She had a mass of curly brown hair and big brown doe eyes that reminded Lyarra of Lady Margaery Baratheon's eyes. Out of the three – Cara, Janysse and Merielle – Lyarra currently liked Cara the best.

"Which gown will you be wearing my lady?" said Cara softly.

Lyarra frowned in thought. She had a busy schedule in front of her. First came breakfast with her family and Prince Orys's (a Stark custom), followed by the gift giving ceremony and then the wedding in the Great Sept of Baelor at midday. The day would end with a grand feast in the Great Hall with entertainment including singers, jugglers and mummers said to be the finest in all of Westeros and maybe even Essos. Well, technically the day would end with the bedding ceremony…

Lyarra didn't want to think about that.

"My lady?"

"The new one," said Lyarra quickly. "The grey one with dots of silver that look like stars." It wasn't exactly a new gown. When Mother was in Dorne, she'd been given a bolt of grey satin decorated with dots of silver. A gift of some sort from an old friend apparently. Whatever the case, Mother had it made into a gown and on her return, gave it to Lyarra. The pattern on the gown was much fancier than the patterns used in the North but wasn't as common as the patterns in Dorne. Up to now, Lyarra liked to think the gown a sort of Northern-Dornish dress. She was to be married soon – what better opportunity to wear the gown symbolising both of her northern and Dornish heritages?

Cara was putting a string of pearls around Lyarra's neck when Father, Mother, Bran returned. "Come Arya," said Mother, beckoning to Arya. "I found a couple of new gowns I had made for you bundled near the bottom of your trunk. You know it would make your dresses wrinkly, Arya?" She shook her head. "Thank the gods I found a few that are still unwrinkled."

Arya groaned. "Must I wear it?"

Mother frowned. "Yes. Now come, I want you to try out the blue gown." Lyarra couldn't help but laugh as Arya grumbled to herself. Mother glanced at Lyarra. "It is good to hear you laugh again," she murmured. Regret momentarily crossed her expression. "I know you love Domeric," she said quietly, "but I believe you'll soon love Prince Orys too." She reached out and squeezed Lyarra's hand. "You'll be the first Stark to wed into the royal House Lyarra. You will do us all proud."

* * *

Breakfast was held in the Queen's Ballroom. It was a family affair and the table had been set out in a circle like it was at supper on the night of her arrival. Lyarra entered the Queen's Ballroom behind her parents and curtsied when Prince Orys was presented to her.

"Shall we eat my lady?" said Prince Orys politely, taking her hand. "I heard the honeycakes are a favourite of yours. I insisted the cooks make the best for you. It is a pity that it is raining is it not? I'd hoped that we'd have a moment alone in the godswood before breakfast." He helped her to her seat. Lyarra glanced at Mother and Father. They were both smiling benignly at her and the prince. "It is sweet of you to remember my love for honeycakes my prince," Lyarra said, smiling at her betrothed. "It is a treat for us children at Winterfell. Sometimes when we recover from bouts of illness, we would receive honeycakes as a treat."

"There will be no lack of honeycakes here," promised Prince Orys.

Lyarra beamed and he smiled shyly back. Prince Orys was more like his uncle than his father: stern and solemn. Suddenly spying the plate of fingerfish crisped in breadcrumbs in front of her, Lyarra pushed it towards Prince Orys. "I believe it is a favourite of yours, my prince?"

"Please, call me Orys. Not many remember my favourite breakfast my lady."

"If you insist upon me calling you Orys, I must insist for you calling me Lyarra, Orys. We are to be married…" It was too late to call it 'soon'.'

"At midday?" supplied Orys. Lyarra nodded.

"Lady Lyarra?" Lyarra looked around and saw Princess Minisa staring shyly at her. "Princess?" said Lyarra gently.

"Mother said this is a Stark tradition," said Princess Minisa, gesturing to all the other family members breaking their fast and talking amicably to each other. "My mother told me many Tully traditions before. How is this a Stark custom my lady Lyarra? Isn't it our families dining together?"

Lyarra smiled at her. She glanced at Father for a second – he was seated to her immediate left – and he nodded. _Tell her the story_ , his eyes told her. "It is indeed a normal breakfast with both our families dining together," Lyarra said to Princess Minisa. "There is always a tale behind a tradition, Princess. This one's the story of King Rickard Stark, the Laughing Wolf. Have you heard about him?"

Princess Minisa shook her head. "Is he a great hero Lady Lyarra?"

"A good king. He defeated the last of the Marsh Kings and annexed the Neck to the North. He took the last Marsh King's daughter, Jyanna, as his wife. He wanted to assure the crannogmen that he will not impose his customs on them. To prove it, he celebrated his wedding with both Stark and crannogmen tradition. When a Marsh King marries, his wedding is a private affair celebrated at home, the guest list consisting of only his family and his bride's. King Rickard Stark couldn't have a wedding like that. It'll infuriate all his bannermen. To compromise, he declared that his family and Jyanna's family will break bread together after prayers on the morning of their wedding. It is a sign of peace and unity. I am certain other Great Houses do the same thing too."

"I heard you will receive presents. I like presents. Uncle Renly likes to give me presents." Princess Minisa smiled happily. "Is that another Stark custom?"

"A common custom in Westeros, Princess. In the time of the Kings of Winter, a ceremony of gift-giving at a wedding usually consists of a new husband and wife receiving a large supply of wool, or pelts, or fur, or even preserved food. They are considered good, useful presents."

Princess Minisa nodded slowly. She looked worried.

"What is it Sister?" asked Orys, concerned.

"My gift to you," Princess Minisa whispered. "It isn't fur, pelts or food."

Lyarra laughed. "Oh Princess! These days gifts don't have to be of wool, fur or pelts or even food anymore. That was back then. A tale of tradition."

"Minisa," the queen called. "Come here and sit next to Lyanna. Orys might wish for some time to speak to Lady Lyarra over breakfast." Princess Minisa gave Orys and Lyarra a sheepish grin before gracefully darting to her seat next to Lyanna.

"She insisted on making us presents," Orys told Lyarra. "I don't know what she had made us. Lyanna wouldn't tell me either. Whatever it is, she is excited for us to receive it soon."

"That is sweet of her," said Lyarra sincerely. She turned her attention to all the platters of food in front of her. There were a combination of both northern dishes and southron dishes, some familiar to her and some not. Apart from the plates of honeycakes and fingerfish, there were succulent gammon steaks, a huge plate of bacon, little tubs of well-churned butter, small bowls of jams, a towering stack of fried bread, wedges of different types of cheese, over a dozen hard-boiled eggs, at least three loaves of fresh white bread, black pudding and a bowl of well-stewed apples all atop the groaning round table.

If that wasn't all, there were flagons of milk – plain and honey – and mead, tea and ale and even light sweet golden wine.

It was more of a feast than a breakfast between two families.

By the time breakfast ended and Lyarra slowly walked to her chambers in the company of Mother and Arya, she couldn't help but wonder if she could still fit in her wedding dress.

* * *

"You are beautiful Lyarra," Father said quietly, surveying Lyarra as she turned around, the skirt of her wedding gown swishing softly with her.

"Thank you Father," said Lyarra, gazing at herself in the great mirror. Staring back at her was a young woman garbed in a grey satin gown embroidered with a dozen or more specks of silver. The inner skirt and the panel covered by the deep vee were of cloth-of-silver, heavily embroidered too. The satin grey sleeves were so long that when the arms were lowered, touched the ground. Nestled on top of her head was a silver tiara embedded with pearls – a gift given to her by the king and queen yesterday. "I can't believe that I'm getting married," murmured Lyarra, attempting another twirl in front of the mirror.

Father smiled, but his grey eyes remained solemn. "Unless you planned to join the motherhouse, your path was always to matrimony."

"In the North, not the south."

"We northerners never forget, but it will best if we forget Domeric."

Lyarra sighed. "It's difficult," she admitted, relieved Mother was busy in Arya's chamber, fussing over Arya's new gown. "Mother thinks that it's so easy to forget one's former betrothed in favour of a prince. It's not. I still miss Domeric, Father." She bowed her head. It was shameful to think of Domeric half an hour before her own wedding to Prince Orys. It felt almost sinful.

Father nodded. "Your mother was born in the south," he reminded her. "Lords and ladies of the south are less honourable when it comes to betrothals." He took a deep breath. "You must know, Lyarra, that I had absolutely no delight breaking your betrothal to Domeric. He is a good lad, an honourable and kind one and very different to his ruthless ancestors." He shook his head. "We lost so much."

"Not to the king though."

"We Northerners play for peace; southroners play for power. Their games are much more complicated than ours." He stopped talking. "I almost forgot," he then said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small weirwood box etched with a number of runes around the borders. In the middle of the lid were the black iron studs of House Royce of Runestone. Father opened it gently and cautiously pulled out the most beautiful necklace Lyarra had ever seen. Wrought from silver, it was a string of shiny pearls, the largest one in the centre surrounded by tiny pearls of its own too. Upon closer examination, Lyarra saw that all of the white stones had been carefully polished.

"It was my mother's," said Father fondly, putting the necklace around Lyarra's neck. He clasped it together and stood back, nodding approvingly. "You see all of the runes here? It _was_ an heirloom from House Royce but it became our House's when Lady Lorra Royce married Lord Beron Stark. Beron and Lorra Royce had a great litter of children which included two daughters. Both died before their lady mother sadly and left no children of their own. Her good-daughters, the wives of her elder sons, vied for this necklace. Before Lady Lorra died, she gave it to Lady Arya Flint, her youngest good-daughter and the wife of Rodrik Stark, youngest of Beron and Lady Lorra's brood. When Arya Flint died, she passed this necklace to her eldest daughter, who happened to be your grandmother and namesake. Now it will be yours."

"It will leave House Stark forever," murmured Lyarra. "I cannot…"

"It was meant to leave House Stark, Lyarra," Father insisted. "Who knows? If it comes to it, the necklace may return to House Stark one day." He paused. "Even if Robb did not marry Daenerys, I believe this necklace would've been in Baratheon hands anyway. Through your late aunt Lyanna."

* * *

The sun didn't peek out from the heavy clouds when it was midday. Though it was still raining (lighter than before though), masses of people have appeared on the streets of King's Landing between the Red Keep atop of Aegon's High Hill and the Great Sept of Baelor situated on top of Visenya's Hill.

When the royal wheelhouse arrived, Lyarra smiled and waved at the people as she carefully walked on the long roll of red carpet leading from the white marble steps into the entrance hall. Father was already waiting for her there. Suspended globes of coloured leaded glass dangling from the ceiling watched Lyarra accept her father's arm before they slowly headed to the double doors. The doors then swung open on cue and Lyarra and Father entered. Lyarra's soft and comfortable grey doeskin slippers tapped the marble floor as she and Father approached the marriage altar positioned between two towering gilded statues of the Father and the Mother. Orys and the squat, fat High Septon were waiting for her.

Silently, Father removed Lyarra's maiden's cloak – an old, shabby one that had been worn by all the eldest daughters of Stark lords and even the Kings of Winter – and stepped back to join Mother, Arya and Bran. Quietly, Prince Orys swept the Baratheon cloak over Lyarra's shoulders and fastened the clasp that'd been made out of obsidian in the shape of a prancing stag. Lyarra was too nervous to roll her eyes impatiently when the High Septon fumbled as he tied the silk ribbon around her hand and Orys's hand. "In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity," the plump High Septon said at last. "Look upon one another and say the words."

Lyarra turned and stared into the prince's bright blue eyes. He gazed back, not a trace of nervousness, hatred or even deep love in sight. Lyarra examined Orys's face for even the smallest sign of affection – no such luck. _Yet_. "Father, Smith and Warrior," she said in unison with Orys. She was surprised her words came out as confident and not perturbed. "Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger, I am his and he is mine from this day until the end of my days." Lyarra caught her breath as Orys – now her husband – leant forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

Slightly dazed, Lyarra automatically faced the wedding guests, still holding her husband's hand. She pasted a smile on her face as the guests burst into applause. Lyarra glanced at Orys again. He saw her look and smiled warmly back. _I will try and love you if you'll allow me_ , his blue eyes said.

Lyarra dipped her head slightly.

 _I will_.

* * *

 **The gift giving ceremony, the guests and other parts of the wedding will be mentioned in the next Stark chapter in the south. The next chapter is in Daenerys's POV.**

 **BigStevie, I like your idea of the potential Free Folk/Northern alliance in the future. I don't actually remember Jon and Val flirting in the books, but then again, my least favourite parts of the books are the Wall and Meereen scenes :) Jon paired with Arianne is also interesting, but it might cause another scandal like the Robb and Dany one. Yes Oberyn is probably aware of Jon's true parentage, but most people will think it strange and scandalous for a Dornish princess to marry a Northern bastard.**


	87. Daenerys IV

There was so much to do at Winterfell nowadays. Gone were the school books and items of amusement; welcome days of ensuring the supplies were full and a well-run household. All of a sudden, now the wife of the acting lord, an outbreak of problems were thrusted at Dany. The food stores must be sufficiently stocked, the storerooms stuffed with furs, pelts and warm coverlets, and the younger ones must be kept from mischief.

It was not easy managing all that whilst carrying a child. Thankfully, Dany had plenty of much-needed help from Maester Luwin. Though he did not seem happy, he still dutifully assisted Dany with her new obligations and continued educating Arthur and Rickon as well as advising Robb in the matters of Winterfell. For that, Dany was extremely grateful. Without the maester's aid, Daenerys felt she would have been a headless chicken running around in endless circles.

That particular day, after a morning counting jars of preserved jam and pots of salt, sugar and oil with the steward, Daenerys finally had the chance to rest. With a sigh of relief, Dany sank onto a comfortable chair and patted her stomach. Even though she knew she was with child, she was not showing yet. "It'll show in your fourth month my lady," Maester Luwin had told her, "or fifth." Dany remembered when Lady Stark was carrying a child, she still continued bustling to and fro even when she was obviously showing. _How will I be able to do that?_ Dany wondered, reaching for her sewing basket. _I've been pregnant for a month and three weeks – I am already exhausted._ She hoped she was carrying a boy. Hopefully when her son was born, the northern lords would be warmer towards her. Surely a male Stark heir would please even the coldest of northern lords.

Dany smiled as Robb entered her chambers. "How is our child?" asked Robb as soon as he looked at her. Dany rolled her eyes. "Really?" she said testily.

Robb laughed. "How are _you_ , Dany?"

"Tired. I don't know how your mother managed to complete all her duties and carry a child in her womb."

"It will be worth it when our child is born." He suddenly looked worried. "Stay safe and comfortable, Dany. Do not stress yourself out."

"I won't," promised Daenerys, shuffling over to make room for Robb. "I know it's still too early to tell, but what do you think? Girl or boy?" She'd rather discuss their unborn child instead of politics, northern lords or the oncoming winter. "I'd love a girl as much as a boy," Dany went on.

"Me too," agreed Robb, his purple eyes glistening with affection. "If I die with a daughter, I'd name her my heir. Many of my ancestors died leaving daughters but their brothers or uncles succeeded them. If anything is to happen to me, our child, regardless of his or her gender, will succeed me. I swear to you, Daenerys, by the old gods and new, our child will be the future Lord or Lady of Winterfell."

"Is that not a little rash, Robb? Your lords will not like it. Besides, your father's still the Lord of Winterfell."

Robb shrugged. "I'm only securing the future for our child. Now, it is never too early to plan names. If it's a boy, what would you like to call him?"

Daenerys thought for a moment. It must be a Northern name. A Stark name. "I think Edwyle or Edwyn would be nice," she decided. "After your father in a way. I also think Cregan and Harlon are good names too."

"Harlon?" Robb wrinkled his nose. "Didn't King Harlon Stark battle against the Boltons and starved out the Dreadfort in a siege lasting two years? Admirable yet the Boltons are already against us. We don't want to offend them more by calling our future son Harlon."

"Did Lord Bolton accept your proposal?" inquired Dany reluctantly. She hated talking about the Boltons, but now that it was brought up…

"Still no reply," sighed Robb. "I wonder if he is ignoring my ravens on purpose. I suspected he was a man who can hold grudges for decades, but the offer was an excellent one. Lord Bolton still gets a Stark good-daughter and a higher dowry. It will mend hostilities between our Houses. Perhaps Lord Bolton is planning to um, break Domeric's betrothal to Arrana Umber gently. I don't know. I hope the Lord of the Dreadfort will respond soon."

"If it works out, at least Arya will know her future husband."

Robb didn't look particularly happy. "She already hates me Dany. Arya'll never forgive me if Syrio Forel leaves. He is planning to, you know. He says he might go back to Braavos before winter sets in." He stood up. "Sorry," he apologised. "I am needed in the solar in ten minutes. War council meeting. Wildlings and all that. If all goes to plan, I'll dine with you tonight. Sometimes they do go overtime though. The Greatjon can be um, obstinate in his war strategies at times." He thought for a moment. "Well, all the northern lords can be stubborn. Oh!" A flash of memory appeared in his eyes. "I forgot to tell you! Gwenysse is coming home. It will take a few months – she will spend a week or two at court with our parents, sisters and Bran – for her to get here."

"She's eight isn't she?"

"Yes. We will also have…more guests."

Daenerys frowned. "More? Robb, your father is aware of this yes?"

Robb nodded. "Of course. It is for the good of the North. Lady Maege Mormont has agreed to send her youngest daughter Lady Lyanna to Winterfell. Usually the Mormont women do not hide from battle, but to preserve House Mormont in the case all the Mormont women are killed in battle, Lady Lyanna Mormont will stay here until the war with the wildlings is over."

"You said guests. Who else will stay?" Robb looked startled. "One of my duties is to ensure there is enough food for the winter," Dany explained. "I've been with the steward counting jars this morning."

"Of course," said Robb, nodding understandingly. "Lady Alys Karstark."

Daenerys frowned again. Lady Alys Karstark was coming to Winterfell? Green-eyed jealousy stabbed Dany in the heart. Lady Alys was no child; she was a young woman only a year younger than Robb. She wasn't particularly beautiful, but she did have pretty blue-grey eyes. _Is that enough for Robb to discard me?_ Dany then almost slapped herself. Robb jilted a _princess_ to marry her. He would not attempt to remove her when he sees the first pretty face come by. Besides, Robb was too honourable to even consider sleeping with other women.

"…and she would've been sent to the Hornwood if there weren't rumours of a violent band of criminals running around on Bolton land," Robb was saying. "Her betrothed is Daryn Hornwood after all. Daryn's mother Lady Donella wanted her to come to the Hornwood, but with the majority of Hornwood men off to fight the wildlings, the Hornwood isn't exactly the safest place for an unmarried girl, thus why Lady Alys is coming here."

"I thought the Karstarks are furious with you."

"Furious yes, but Lord Karstark's worst fear is his daughter stolen by wildlings. If having Lady Alys as a guest here will smooth out relations with House Karstark, so be it. Ensure Lady Alys is comfortable and happy, Daenerys. She might not like you, but she will still be our guest." He hesitated. "I'm concerned she might be ah, bored here with Lyarra and Arya gone. Befriend her. I know my father often kept you and Jon out of sight during important visits, but you are a Stark now. Well, in everyone's eyes you are a Stark." He kissed her on the cheek. "I must go now. It'll be a mistake to keep the other lords waiting."

Dany nodded and watched him leave. She picked aimlessly at her sewing, deep in thought. Robb was always busy these days. Sometimes the only time she'd talk to him was in the evening before they went to sleep. As she contemplated, one of the new ladies Robb assigned her walked in. She was from House Mollen and was the niece of Hallis Mollen, Captain of the Winterfell guards. Lady Raya Mollen did not seem pleased at the prospect of serving Dany. At times she would be insolent and sarcastic – apparently like her uncle in that aspect.

"Lady Lyanna Mormont is here my lady," Raya Mollen informed her, her green eyes twinkling with bemusement.

"I'll welcome her then." Daenerys rose. "Prepare her chambers."

"What am I? A common maidservant my lady?" Dany sighed. Raya Mollen was not in a cooperative mood today. "My father's a knight and my mother the eldest niece of Lord Locke," Raya said proudly. Her lips curled. "At least I'm not afraid of stating my parentage."

 _I would state my true heritage if it didn't endanger the Starks_ , Daenerys wanted to retort. Instead, she gritted her teeth and said as calmly as she could, "Please go and ask the maids to prepare Lady Lyanna's rooms."

"As you wish my lady." Raya left.

Sighing a second time, Dany slowly made her way to the Great Hall. Now she'd married Robb, the Winterfell servants no longer treated her kindly. All of them – except Maester Luwin but he wasn't exactly a servant – were more impudent like Raya and the bolder ones would scowl at her. _I wish I didn't have to hide as a Sand,_ thought Daenerys sadly. _If I am Daenerys Targaryen, I will not be hated and Robb will not be despised for marrying me._ No, even if she was the last trueborn dragon, to the world, the northerners would still hate her for wedding Robb. Her brother Rhaegar – it was still so strange thinking of him as her brother – kidnapped Lady Lyanna Stark and started a war. Well, maybe not kidnapped, but what he did _still_ incited a war which ended in his death and Lady Lyanna's. Daenerys sighed for a third time. Targaryen or Sand, she would never earn the love of the Northerners. Or the Baratheons for that matter. The king would rather see her dead than alive and married _and_ with child if he knew the truth.

"My lady." Maester Luwin was beckoning her towards the small, unsmiling girl covered from head to toe in thick furs. "This is Lady Lyanna Mormont. My lady of House Mormont, this is Lord Robb's wife the Lady Daenerys…Stark."

Dany smiled at Lady Lyanna who pushed her furred hood away. The little lady didn't smile back. Lady Lyanna Mormont's brown eyes warily scanned around as if she was on a battlefield instead of Winterfell's Great Hall. Dany watched her sit down at the end of a long seat at one of the trestle tables. Though it must've been a long, exhausting trip from Bear Island, Lady Lyanna didn't look tired. She had a determined chin and her dark brown hair was tied back.

"Welcome to Winterfell Lady Lyanna," said Dany nervously. This was her first time as hostess. "If you are exhausted, I will have you shown to your room."

Lady Lyanna looked at her impassively. "I'm not tired," she said shortly. "I had rested quite a bit on the journey here."

"I…see. Would you like to eat then, my lady? I'm afraid it will only be us dining as my husband is in a war council meeting and my young good-brothers are in an intense training session." Lady Lyanna's eyes brightened when Daenerys said the training session. "May I join them?" she asked.

"Now?" said Daenerys, taken back. She knew the Mormont women learnt to be skilled fighters, but hearing a ten year old girl request it was…strange.

Lady Lyanna frowned. "Yes now. I'm not tired my lady."

"Should you not settle in your new home first? I will be happy to give you um a tour if you want."

Lady Lyanna shrugged. "I'm already settled."

Before Dany could say any more, Meera Reed appeared. "Is this Lady Lyanna?" the crannogwoman inquired.

"I'm Lyanna Mormont," the Mormont girl responded before Dany could. "And you are a crannogman."

Meera smiled. "Meera Reed. I heard you're a fighter too." Lady Lyanna nodded slowly with suspicion. "Bear Island does not solely contain warrior women," said Meera, twirling her frog spear. "Though you do fight more against people, I must admit. We crannogmen all learn to fight at a young age – both boys and girls – to be able to hunt and defend ourselves. What is your weapon of choice?"

"Mace."

"Mine is the frog spear and net."

As the two chatted, Daenerys watched on, slightly depressed. _It is natural that Lady Lyanna will be happier talking to Meera_ , she tried to console herself. _Meera's also a guest here and is good with weapons._ She didn't feel any better. Deep inside, Dany knew it was because of her 'bastard' name. Even the youngest Mormont did not approve of her marriage.

"My lady," said Maester Luwin quietly, shuffling to her side. "If you wish, I can keep an eye on matters here. I will ensure Lady Lyanna is shown to her chambers or at least given food and drink."

"Thank you," said Daenerys gratefully. There was no point lingering around if she was unwanted. She quietly slipped away. Daenerys halted close to the doors. She glanced back. Lady Lyanna Mormont didn't seem to notice that Dany was not at her side anymore. Meera noticed though and gave her a quick nod. _Don't worry. I will look after her,_ her green eyes told her. Usually Dany would be very thankful; not when she was playing the part of hostess though.

Tired of being confined within the walls of Winterfell, Daenerys made her way to the godswood. Lately, she had found comfort in the silence and serenity of the Winterfell godswood. She would never be devoted to the old gods like Jojen Reed, but she certainly appreciated the quiet godswood more. Once Dany was afraid of the thick black trunks that crowded together and the ancient heart tree that was brooding over a small black pool – not anymore.

A cold wind flittered through the still trees and kissed Dany on the cheek. She shivered yet sat down on a large, smooth rock near the heart tree. She and Robb were secretly married here and one day their child would be too, though in pomp and glory. Daenerys closed her eyes and allowed her thoughts to wander slowly, sluggishly even. Was Jon still alive? There was no way he is dead. They would've received a raven about it by now. _Why did Jon leave?_ Dany wondered _. Surely there must be another reason for his departure than a thirst for wildling blood._

"Daenerys Stark." Dany jumped to her feet, startled, as she heard a quiet voice utter her name from behind her. Her heart slowed back to normal as she noticed the speaker – Jojen Reed. _What is it with Reeds?_ Daenerys pondered. _First Meera, now Jojen._ They rarely interacted with her before and now they both did…on the same day too. Jojen was naturally a recluse; Meera was not. It was suspicious and rather…rather odd.

"Jojen," said Dany, breathing deeply in relief.

Jojen's solemn, deep green eyes fixed themselves on her. "Did I frighten you? I apologise for that. I was trying to find you Daenerys Stark."

"How do you know I'd be here?"

"I would come here if I felt threatened."

Daenerys arched an eyebrow. "I don't feel threatened, Jojen. Why should I? I'm at home. Winterfell is my _home_."

"It is your home," Jojen conceded, "but will it still be? When is a home not your home?" He answered his own question. "When it is invaded."

"Did you find me to tell me riddles?"

Jojen took a step towards her. Daenerys instinctively stepped back. There was something disconcerting about the heir to Greywater Watch. "Some say death by love is the most painful," Jojen said quietly. "Some would die longing for it. Other people may die regretting they ever tasted love. You are shrouded with secrets, I know that Daenerys Stark. Robb Stark sacrificed everything for you. Maybe even his life. Will you regret it? Will he regret it?"

"Stop it!" Daenerys snapped, desiring to clap her hands over her ears. "I don't want to hear this! What gives you the right to ask questions like that? What gives you the right to make me question my marriage? Love is not poison!" She almost did not believe her own words towards the end.

"I have green dreams," murmured Jojen, leaning forward and almost caressing the face carved into the trunk of the heart tree. "I see visions. Visions that'll come true." His green eyes returned to Daenerys. "Most of it is to do with the North – I see you though, Daenerys Stark."

Momentarily distracted, Daenerys said, "Why do you call me that?"

"Call you what?"

"Daenerys Stark."

Jojen paused as if he was deep in thought. "Everything about you is wrong," he said finally. "I think the only time you were – no, you were never _you_. You remind me of a Faceless Man from Braavos. I don't think you were ever you since birth. I don't mean to offend you Daenerys Stark, but who are you? I know you aren't the bastard daughter of the late Lord Dayne." He studied Dany. "You are not a Sand, a dragon perhaps?" Daenerys's blood went cold. "But there are no dragons left," he murmured, his eyes never leaving hers, "are there, Daenerys Stark?"

"Why are you here?" said Daenerys bluntly, quashing her fear.

"I have my reasons Daenerys Stark. As you have yours. In our lives, we have an abundant opportunity to choose which doors to enter. The door to the devout in the south will always be open for you…Daenerys Stark."

* * *

Daenerys stared at the ceiling as she waited for Robb to join her in their bed. It still bothered her, that conversation with Jojen in the godswood. Now she wished she had never spoken to Jojen Reed – he brought naught but uncertainty. He had now cast the shadow of doubt upon Dany's thoughts. Chiefly the net was thrown over her contemplations of her marriage to Robb.

The bedchamber door opened and Robb came in, yawning. "We received a few late ravens," he explained, rubbing his eyes. "The Greatjon insisted for us to read and respond to them straight away." The bed whined slightly as Robb climbed on and laid next to Dany. "I thought you'd be asleep already."

"I can't sleep," muttered Daenerys.

"What's on your mind?"

"Why do you think I have something on my mind?"

Robb laughed. "You said you couldn't sleep." He turned and faced her. "Is it the child?" he asked worriedly.

Dany sighed. Why was it always the child these days? _It isn't fair to be irritated at Robb though_. He was stuck in his solar for most of the day and as a prospective father, his thoughts would go to their child first. "The child is fine," Daenerys said to him reassuringly. "Soon I will feel him or her move."

"That will be months away wouldn't it?"

Daenerys nodded sadly. "I wish I didn't find out I am with child so early. When I spoke to Maester Luwin, I expected him to tell me that it was monthly pains." It had been unfortunate that she suffered moon blood pains every month. Pregnant though! What was worse was that the dreaded morning sickness hadn't ended. In fact, it only worsened. Every morning at the crack of dawn, Dany would run off to vomit into her chamber pot. Sometimes the nausea would last all day.

"We'll have many children…" murmured Robb, his eyes fluttering shut. "Plenty of sons and daughters…" Daenerys almost shuddered at the thought of it. She had once dreamed of having a dozen children too, but after seven weeks of rejecting a number of tasty dishes, vomiting and experiencing nausea, having about a dozen sons and daughters was less appealing.

Dany watched Robb swiftly drift off into the realm of dreams. If only she could too. She'd tell Robb her fears tomorrow. Daenerys turned and blew out the small, flickering, yellow flame of the candle. Maester Luwin had a saying: every day was a fresh, brand new day.

She really hoped it was true.

* * *

 **Jojen is kind of hinting for Dany to join a motherhouse in case it wasn't clear. I've decided that I'll start Part 4 with a Domeric POV and I have room in the remaining few chapters of Part 3 for a chapter in the POV of a Northern lord. Tell me the northern lords/ladies' POV (or a specific lord or lady's POV) you really want to read in and I'll write it in the POV of either the most popular choice or the most interesting.**


	88. Cersei III

When the rain came, Cersei Lannister laughed. The precious wedding ruined – not by another foolish boy or stupid girl, but by the weather. When two servants came with the midday meal of crusty bread, a small cup of mead and thinly sliced cold meat, Cersei ate well. Her good mood ended when her assigned maidservant informed her that Prince Orys and Lady Lyarra Stark's wedding went ahead. The grand breakfast had occurred, as had the gift giving ceremony and even a feast. It was only the outdoor festivities that had been postponed.

Ignoring her dinner that had long gone cold, Cersei prowled around her small prison like a caged lion. Her emerald green eyes flashed with fury as she recalled once again that it was her cold, stony-faced husband who ordered her arrest – on the grounds of adultery and incest! Stannis Baratheon was never much of a good husband or an exciting lover anyway. And for him to arrest her! The mere cheek! Just because Stannis found more delight in abstinence didn't mean she, a woman with physical needs, should suffer too. By the gods Cersei hated Stannis.

 _I want him dead_ , Cersei thought savagely, her slim fingers curling into fists. _Oh, one day Stannis will pay for this_. There was so much about Stannis she loathed. So much more than just that arrest. For one, he chose to shower his miniscule vial of affection on the hideous and disfigured Shireen rather than any of the other sons and daughters Cersei gave birth to. If Cersei had had her way, she would've sent that blasted girl far, far away or even had her killed. Lord Tywin had always said that the weak, the crippled, the disfigured and the simple-minded lackwits were better off dead than alive.

If that wasn't insulting enough, Stannis refused to have Robert or Tommen (or both of them) fostered at Casterly Rock. Fool! The great Lord Tywin even _offered_ to foster them and to teach them about the ways of ruling the Westerlands. Oh, if Stannis was not such a stubborn mule…! Instead of being a landless younger son, Tommen could've been the next Lord of Casterly Rock! Any clever man with a lot of brains would kill to have their son named Lord Tywin's heir. What did Stannis do? He told Lord Tywin, "You have a son." By that he meant the Imp.

More furious than ever, Cersei pounded on the solid iron door. She waited for the chief gaoler – a former cloth merchant! – to peer through the small slit carved near the middle of the door. "I desire to see my brother Ser Jaime Lannister," she said imperiously. "I am allowed visitors." The chief gaoler scratched his chin. "I'm the daughter of Lord Tywin Lannister," Cersei growled menacingly, "the Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport and Warden of the West! He will have you out of a job if you treat me like you treat any criminal!"

The chief gaoler grunted. "Forgive me milady, but I must first check with Lord Baratheon. I've been instructed to obey the Hand of the King's orders concerning you milady. Milord Hand specified that all prison privileges given to the highborn prisoners like yourself are to be revoked."

"Revoked?" Cersei repeated. "I am a Lannister!"

The chief gaoler eyed her. "Milord Hand's orders milady."

"I demand to see my brother at once or Lord Tywin will have your head!"

"I will speak to milord Hand milady. If he approves, I'll have Ser Jaime brought here tomorrow morning."

Cersei almost scoffed. Earning Stannis's approval was like spotting snarks and grumkins strolling around King's Landing. No, it was time to change tactic. "Come now my good man," Cersei said as sweetly as she could manage. "If you help me, I can help you. What do you say?"

"Unless you can make me a lord milady, I'm afraid not."

The sheer insolence of that lowborn fool! "My father Lord Tywin is always in a lookout for new gaolers," Cersei said, gritting her teeth. "He pays them well. More well than you are paid." She was not actually sure, but better to lie. To her delight, the chief gaoler looked uncertain. "Come now," she wheedled. "I know about you. A cloth merchant who purchased the position of Chief Gaoler? Lord Stannis often spoke about you."

"Milord Hand did, milady?"

Cersei had no idea if Stannis did or did not. "Oh yes," she said, her eyes shining with glee. "He always said that one day he would have you arrested for buying an office rather than being appointed." It was something Stannis would say if he had not already. All that man did was complain and grumble. "Ask yourself whether it is worth serving a man like Stannis Baratheon," Cersei continued. "All hard work, no reward…is it truly worth it?"

The chief gaoler continued staring at her, this time in silence. "I'll go and speak to milord Hand," he said finally. Cersei's hopes crashed down in an instant. "If he approves, I'll have Ser Jaime Lannister brought here tomorrow morning. I'll come back soon milady."

Cersei snarled angrily as the chief gaoler closed the small slit and left. She then resumed her earlier prowl, vowing revenge on both Stannis and the gaoler. If she was fortunate, she would glimpse her sweet Jaime…on his way to execution.

It didn't take long before the cell door opened and the chief gaoler walked in, a grim-faced guard on either side of him. Cersei crossed her arms. "Well?" It was a small surprise to see the chief gaoler enter her cell. She expected he'd inform her of Stannis's refusal through the little slit on the door.

The chief gaoler handed her a folded piece of parchment. "Milord Hand said to me that if you willingly sign and confess, you will be allowed visitors."

Cersei made a noise of disgust. "What is there to confess? _My lord husband_ will have me condemned and killed anyway!"

"Milord Hand is merciful milady. Besides, he is not judging you in your trial as in the eyes of the Seven, he is still your husband."

"Who will judge me then, Gaoler? The honourable Eddard Stark?" Her last few words dripped like poison. Eddard Stark was almost as bad as Stannis. Two men who shared a mistress in justice and precious honour. The chief gaoler nodded. "I believe there will be three judges milady," he informed her. "Lord Stark of course, as he is the Master of Laws. The other two judges of your trial will most likely be Prince Oberyn Martell and the king."

Cersei groaned silently. The Red Viper of Dorne would have her condemned to death before the trial even started. Lord Stark would listen fairly (hopefully), but would he in Jaime's trial? What of the king? He was said to be a forgiving man to maidens and people who don't bear the name Targaryen.

What of the Lannisters though?

* * *

When the sun rose – a tiny glimmer of gold behind a cluster of clouds – in the morning, Cersei found herself pacing in her small prison. She stopped and stared at her bowl of porridge with distaste. Porridge was her least favourite dish, even when she was a child. No matter if it was served with strawberries, cream, syrup or sugar, she hated it. It shouldn't be a surprise that Stannis ordered porridge for her breakfast out of spite. Not only was porridge plain and unappetising, but also food of more common nobles than to those of House Lannister. A Lannister meal would always include a rasher of bacon and butter – food of the rich.

The door opened and the scowling Lord Stannis Baratheon himself walked in. As Cersei reached for the goblet she intended to throw at him in rage, she caught sight of the two men with him: the Onion Knight and for some odd reason, Grand Maester Pycelle. Cersei looked suspiciously at the Grand Maester. Though he was old and frail, Lord Tywin had described him once as a Lannister man. _What is the point?_ Cersei thought irritably. _Pycelle is as much use as a rotting fish_.

"My lady," Stannis acknowledged flatly.

"What is this?" snarled Cersei. "Do you plan to murder me? Is that it? You must think I am a fool. The three of you are here to kill me to spare a trial."

Stannis looked at her with disgust. "Murder? You think me a murderer? If I am a killer, I wouldn't even have you arrested. I would've killed you myself. I'm not a murderer my lady."

"Why are you here then? To gloat?"

"This is no gloating matter. Take a seat." He waited until Cersei sat down on an old chair – the _only_ chair in the prison. "The Grand Maester suggested that a trial would be messy," Stannis said stiffly. "Incest and adultery are worthy of deaths – painful deaths too. Grand Maester Pycelle suggests that if you cooperate and sign your confession, there'll be no trial and you'll live the rest of your life confined in a few rooms in Dragonstone in my brother Lord Renly's custody."

"House arrest!"

"It is better than death my lady."

Cersei glowered at Stannis. "What of my children?"

"Under strictest guard, you will be able to see them once a year at an arranged appointed time. Whatever the case, the High Septon has agreed that when it is all over, we will no longer be husband and wife. I will retain custody of the children." He paused. "Of _my_ children," he corrected himself. "Tommen and Myrcella will be wards of the crown."

"No," said Cersei defiantly. "I will have my trial. At least then I'll have a chance to defend myself and my children from the disgusting lies you said. You are just a coward trying to wiggle out of a trial. You don't wish to show your evidence – is it that weak, my lord? Do you have any evidence at all or are you doing this to earn the enmity of House Lannister of Casterly Rock? If it's the latter, you will regret it. Only a fool will earn House Lannister's wrath. Charging me on incest! Why would you even choose that? Do you even have proof my lord Stannis? Any evidence? It will be a shame if we discover you have no evidence in truth."

Stannis narrowed his eyes. "You are too proud, my lady. Do you think I would arrest you without proof?"

"If you want me to confess, show me evidence."

"We are not on trial."

Cersei shot Stannis a triumphant smirk. "Coward." She crossed her arms. "You have no evidence against me, do you?"

"Lady Cersei," spoke the Grand Maester, shuffling closer towards her. "It's best to confess now. Your House's dignity will still be intact-"

"No." Cersei glowered at him with distaste. He was of no help whatsoever. "I'll take my chances at the trial then. I _refuse_ to confess and there is nothing that you can do about it. Nothing at all!"

"You and Ser Jaime committed incest," said Stannis stiffly, "a great sin. If that's not enough, you're an adulteress. If you do not wish to confess, so be it. You must know that Ser Jaime already confessed. With his testimony revealed in the trial, I can assure you that there will be no mercy. Ser Jaime will no doubt endure a very painful death: disembowelment, hanging and beheading possibly."

"My brother didn't commit a crime worthy of that punishment!" said Cersei in indignation. "He doesn't deserve to suffer a traitor's death!" She cursed inwardly. She knew at once that she fell in a trap.

"The Faith is willing to allow Ser Jaime atone for his sins," droned Pycelle. "To do that, he will be sent to the Wall for the rest of his days."

"How is that mercy?" spat Cersei. "He'll die in the freezing, cold wasteland!"

"It is an honour to serve-"

"An honour for those Northern savages, not my brother!"

"Very well," said Stannis curtly, turning to leave. "Our time has been wasted. It is a shame you are so obstinate my lady."

"It is you who is obstinate as a mule!" Cersei threw back recklessly. "You're by far more loyal to your mistress Lady Justice than to family! I heard my father was not paid the coin owed to him and he offered you a compensation for all this! But oh no, it isn't good enough for Lord Stannis Baratheon! You had to reject all of his offers and continue with this farce of a trial! We both know you will not rest until I'm dead! What then, my lord? Murder?"

Stannis stared at her. "You're mad," he said finally. "Mad, my lady. I hope you'll gain your senses for your trial in two days' time."

Before Grand Maester Pycelle shuffled out, he hurriedly handed Cersei a scrap of paper. "From Lord Tywin," he mumbled almost inaudibly before hobbling out, the sound of his clinking chains augmenting as he left quickly. Cersei waited until the cell door was slammed shut behind the old Grand Maester. Hmm…maybe the ancient Grand Maester Pycelle was useful after all.

More excited than she'd been in days, Cersei read eagerly.

Her heart sank.

 _The trial is in two days_ , Lord Tywin had written. _You will say and do nothing at all. I will attempt to speak to the king – he is the only one of your judges who may be lenient and open for compromises and negotiating. I am not doing this for you or_ _Jaime; it's to salvage what remains of House Lannister's dignity. The best Jaime will receive is the choice to take the black. If he does, he'll be able to help regain respect and prestige for House Lannister though from the Wall. Tommen might still be able to be named Lannister and succeed me as Lord of Casterly Rock. As for you, if all of Westeros can forget about you, that is a blessing enough for House Lannister._

* * *

Six Baratheon guards appeared early in the morning, ready to escort Cersei to the throne room for the trial. Cersei was finishing her breakfast of bread lathered generously with butter, a slice of bacon and a boiled egg when Ser Kevan came in, a pained expression in his eyes.

"What is it Uncle?" said Cersei impatiently.

"It was hard finding you witnesses," her uncle said shortly. "Ser Addam will be one of your witnesses. I believe he will be your strongest. Lord Tywin had also ah, managed to find your old septa. She will be another witness."

Cersei made a noise at the back of her throat. Septa Adalais? That prudish and pug-faced old bitch who never ate anything but bread and watered ale like one of the peasants? It wasn't even fine white bread mind you. Even now, it was difficult to think Septa Adalais was formerly from House Oakheart. She certainly looked a lot more like a Clegane than an Oakheart. Naturally, Cersei hadn't given a thought to her old septa since the day she no longer needed her. She'd always considered that once her education ended, Septa Adalais returned to whatever motherhouse she had come from.

"How did you find her?" Cersei said curiously.

Ser Kevan frowned. "Find her? We didn't need to find her, Cersei. She has been at Casterly Rock since Genna's girlhood. Once you no longer required a septa, she – Septa Adalais – was sent to look after our cousins Ladies Cerenna and Myrielle. Now she is taking care of my daughter Janei. Well, she's now here and she will be telling the judges that when you were a girl, you never harboured any…wrong ah, feelings towards Jaime."

Cersei was sceptical. "My best defenders are Ser Addam Marbrand and a bitch-faced septa?" Ser Kevan shot her a warning look. "Come," he said shortly. "I'm to escort you to the throne room with the guards."

"Shouldn't my father be doing that?"

"The king determined I am more harmless than Lord Tywin Lannister." Cersei snorted. Ser Kevan was clearly not so harmless if there were half a dozen guards bearing the Baratheon sigil waiting for her.

"The trial is against me already," said Cersei casually as she began her walk to the Great Hall beside her uncle and in front and behind the Baratheon guards. "It will be more in my favour when I demand a trial by combat."

Ser Kevan stopped so suddenly that one of the guards almost crashed into him. Cersei smirked. "You won't," Ser Kevan said warningly. "You will not do anything so foolish. Who do you think will champion you? Ser Gregor Clegane? I know he's under orders not to fight for you in any trial by combat. Your father will not send one of his best soldiers to fight for you."

Cersei frowned. "I'm his daughter."

This time Ser Kevan did not even stop striding when he said bluntly, "Since the moment your _husband_ Lord Stannis Baratheon started gathering evidence for the trial, your lord father no longer considered you his daughter. The only reason the Lord of Casterly Rock even bothers is to save House Lannister from disgrace. You know the story of his father Lord Tytos, Cersei. You know what happened during his rule and you know what Lord Tywin did. What Lord Tywin is still doing is for the good of House Lannister. He rebuilt it from the ground."

"Why the witnesses then if he disowned me?" Cersei challenged.

"If somehow you win, he will demand custody of you. You'll return to Casterly Rock and confined in the chambers furthest away till the end of your days. If you even think of demanding a trial by combat, you will find no champion."

Cersei remained silent; her mind was raging. Whichever way she turned, she'd be facing imprisonment. _Men are useless_ , she thought angrily. _What's the point of relying on them to 'defend' you? What is the crime of loving one's sibling? No one battered an eye when the Targaryens wed brother and sister and sired their sons and daughters! Moreover, why are women blamed for fucking the men they love? Whores, sluts, harlots! What are the men that cheat on their wives called? Men._ Not that Stannis would ever fuck other women, but it was still unfair. She did nothing wrong; fucking another was not a crime in the world of love.

Three of the Baratheon guards led Cersei and Ser Kevan through the towering bronze doors and down the long carpet towards the Iron Throne. The king was in the Great Hall already, but he wasn't sitting on his throne. Instead, he sat in front of a table on the dais between the solemn Lord Eddard Stark garbed in plain, dull grey and a smirking Prince Oberyn Martell in flowing robes of striped yellow, red and orange. On either side of the red carpet were hundreds of courtiers, all eying Cersei and whispering excitedly. _What am I?_ Cersei thought crossly. _A freak? You want a freak, gawp at Tyrion_. Closest to the three judges were Stannis, gloomy as ever, his precious Onion Knight at his side. She was surprised – only a bit – when she caught sight of her children, all six including the horrible Shireen, standing in a line close to Stannis. _What are they doing here?_ Surely Stannis would know that it was cruel to have the children watch the trial.

The High Septon started with a prayer, asking the Father Above to guide them to justice. When he was done, the king cleared his throat. "Lady Cersei!" His loud voice boomed through the throne room. "You have been arrested on the grounds of adultery and incest. For Mother's Mercy, do you confess?"

Before Cersei could reply, more guards entered. This time there were fourteen guards and in the middle of them stood Jaime. Cersei dug her nails into her palms as she watched him stare at the ground. _Fool_ , she couldn't help think. _You are the finest knight in the Seven Kingdoms! You could've fought your way out! Only a fool surrenders without a bloody fight_. She glared at Jaime. What was he going to do to her? Openly confess to avoid a grisly death? No he wouldn't do that. He still loved her very much – as much as she still loved him.

"Lady Cersei?" said Prince Oberyn lazily. "Shall we be taking your silence as an extended sign of guilt?"

"I plead not guilty," said Cersei proudly, lifting her chin.

The king nodded at Stannis. "Lord Baratheon, the evidence?"

Slight alarm tingled in Cersei's mind as she noticed the Onion Knight cringe – why would he cringe? Stannis strode in front of the judges. "My first evidence can be seen by everyone," he announced. He pointed at the frightened Tommen and a terrified Myrcella. "Green eyes, blonde hair," Stannis declared. "Lannister traits." He gestured to the other children. "Black of hair, blue eyes." Is that not enough? If not, look at the royal princes and princesses and His Grace's illegitimate sons. All black of hair with blue eyes." He looked directly at Cersei who swallowed a lapse of fear as one would swallow wine. "For centuries, all Baratheon marriages have yielded black-haired and blue-eyed children. My question is this: how did I beget two blonde-haired, green-eyed children from a Lannister when all the Baratheon men of the past who married Lannisters produced children of black hair and blue eyes?" He took out a huge book. "Further evidence lies here."

Cersei bit her lip to maintain a proud composure, but deep inside, she tasted a drop of apprehension _. The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms._ Her nails dug deeper into her palms. _Maesters have no need to lie when writing that blasted book._

* * *

 **Not that many chapters left until Part 4! I'm still happy to hear which northern lord/lady POV you want to read in. Currently it's the Mormonts in the lead, though it's a hard decision to decide which Mormont POV to write in :D**


	89. Oberyn I

It seemed King's Landing was more interesting than before. When Oberyn had arrived in the stinking city, he expected the usual: long feasts, a wedding, plotting, more plotting…a trial though? A _Lannister_ trial? When Oberyn first heard of it, he laughed. Finally, a Lannister brought low!

As a loyal brother would, Oberyn wrote about it gleefully to Doran – Doran did not reply yet, but he had always been slow in replying. No doubt there'd be a vast stack of letters on his letters before he would respond to one.

"My prince, the trial will start again in ten minutes."

Oberyn languidly stirred his goblet of Dornish red with a spoon. He glanced up at the sixteen year old Perros Blackmont, one of his new squires that had came to King's Landing with him. "What do you think, Blackmont?" Oberyn said casually, moving the spoon and sipping his wine. "Reckon she is guilty?"

"You are the judge my prince," Perros responded. "Do you think she is guilty? I hear Lord Baratheon will present more evidence today. Detailed evidence. I don't know how he got his hands on detailed evidence, but he did."

 _The children are his evidence_. "The men here think themselves honourable and chivalrous," Oberyn said thoughtfully, standing up. "Protecting their women from danger and cruelty – which happen to _not_ include themselves. Blackmont, do you know what the people here call love?"

"No my prince."

"They call love the deadliest of poisons in the world." Oberyn couldn't resist a small disdainful laugh. "What do they know of poisons?"

"Not as much as you my prince."

Oberyn grinned. He liked Perros Blackmont – the young man was never afraid of stating a blunt opinion or two from time to time. Besides, Perros was always a good drinking companion. "Love is no poison," Oberyn declared, standing up and leisurely walking out of his well-furnished guest chambers. Someone had put two tapestries – both depicting House Martell's sigil – on the wall. How thoughtful. He wondered if it was the Baratheon king's idea. He dismissed it immediately. From close observation over the last couple of months, Robert Baratheon had cared lot more about his whores than even his wife. Why would he care about the Dornish lords and ladies? Did he care about anyone but his string of whores and that long dead Stark girl whom he hardly knew? Oberyn shook his head. Only a bloody fool would love the dead more than the living.

 _But you love the dead too. Elia, Rhaenys…_

"Ah! My lord of Dorne! Just the man I need to see. Now." Oberyn did not know whether to smile or scowl at the Fat Flower of Highgarden who stood barring his path to the Great Hall. Oberyn slyly grinned at Mace Tyrell. "Lord Tyrell," he said as pleasantly as he could muster. "I have been here for months and now you wish to welcome me! How…delightful."

The Fat Flower didn't even try to smile back. "Tell your Dornish friends to stay away from my niece," he said bluntly.

Oberyn frowned. "Your niece?"

"Lady Desmera Redwyne. My sister's only daughter. I caught a couple of your men leering at her in the most dishonourable manner. Tell them to stay away or they will feel the wrath of Highgarden and the Arbor."

"They are not my men, Lord Tyrell. They are friends, or relatives, or both." He chuckled as Lord Tyrell seemed a little confused. Fool. "I can assure you, my lord, that all of them are honourable. None of them will even think to harm one hair of your precious niece."

"She is to be betrothed!" the Fat Flower warned, wagging a plump finger as an over zealot septon would to a sinful man.

"Oh?" Oberyn couldn't resist saying. "To whom?"

"Not a Dornishman!" snapped Tyrell. He gave him a curt nod and marched off, almost colliding into Lord Dagos Manwoody who was heading into the Great Hall with his two sons Mors and Dickon and his brother Ser Myles. Shaking his head a second time, Oberyn sauntered into the throne room, his vibrant orange and red robes swirling around him. He winked at Ellaria who was watching in the gallery before sitting down on the king's left. Lord Eddard Stark had already claimed the seat to the king's right.

"Prince Oberyn," Lord Stark acknowledged with a nod.

"Lord Stark," Oberyn returned. "Have you decided upon a verdict of yet? It had been made clear to me that as you are the Master of Laws, you will have the final say. Even over His Grace." He smiled as King Robert grunted, "I told Ned that he's to have final say over this damn trial. Stannis insisted on fair justice – I would've declared Lady Cersei guilty in a minute if he wasn't so bloody adamant on having his wife judged guilty fairly. I never understand Stannis." Oberyn tapped a few of his fingers on the table thoughtfully.

"You cannot deny that Stannis is just," said Lord Stark reluctantly.

The king snorted. " _Just_ ," he growled unpleasantly. "Let's get this trial done."

Oberyn watched the doors open and over a dozen Baratheon guards usher Ser Jaime and Lady Cersei in. He saw Stannis line the children in front of them and he winced. Using children as evidence…so cruel. _Baratheons are never kind to their children_ , Oberyn thought sadly, catching a glimpse of a tear running down young Tommen's cheek. _Though Robert Baratheon did not kill Rhaenys, he was glad she was murdered_. If Rhaenys had lived, would he have killed her? _Yes._ Even with one Targaryen girl huddling in the shadows of court, Robert Baratheon would not be able to sleep at night until she was disposed of. What of the king across the water, the _true_ king? Would he have all the Baratheon children executed for the crime of being the children and nephews and nieces of the usurper king?

No stags could sleep well knowing the dragons were still alive and no dragons could rest comfortably with the knowledge of stags still roaming around.

"Lord Stannis," Lord Stark spoke. "This morning you told us here about Robart Baratheon and Lanna Lannister, Joren Baratheon and Malora Lannister, Stanwell Baratheon and Alysane Lannister, Roland Baratheon and Meredyth Lannister and Gowen Baratheon and Tya Lannister. They were Baratheon-Lannister matches in the past. You had also read from this book" – he tapped the huge, heavy book on the table in front of them – "written by Grand Maester Malleon. You stated not all of them had issue, but those who did, yielded children of black hair and blue eyes, features present in you yourself my lord, His Grace and Lord Renly. Do you have any other evidence connecting to that, my lord Stannis?"

"I do my lord," Lord Stannis answered. "It is well known that Her Grace Queen Catelyn's family have auburn hair and blue eyes – look at her niece Lady Sansa of House Arryn. The late Lord Arryn was said to have blond hair yet Lady Sansa has inherited the Tully trait. Lord Tully's sons and daughters by Lady Leyla also have auburn hair and blue eyes. Only the queen's children do not inherit the Tully hair. The Lannisters too have the familiar traits of blonde hair and green eyes in their family, but how often do those traits appear in the children of ladies of Lannister and other nobles?" He pointed to the book. "My lord Stark, if you look inside, you will see that the children of many Lannister women take the hair and eye colours of their fathers, not Lannister mothers." He waited as Lord Stark opened the vast book and flipped to a page on House Lannister. Oberyn glanced at it briefly a few seconds before Lord Stark flipped to a page on House Marbrand. _Johan Marbrand_ , Oberyn read silently, _born the first son to Ser Jason Marbrand and Lady Johanna Lannister. Brown of hair and brown eyes_.

"How do you know Myrcella and Tommen are bastards of incest though, Lord Stannis?" inquired Lord Stark. "The Lannister traits are strong – perhaps it seeps in Myrcella and Tommen."

Lord Stannis grinded his teeth. He then pointed at a tall young man with thick, black hair, blue eyes and a confused expression. "This is Gendry Waters," he said calmly, "one of His Grace's illegitimate children. His mother was a worker in one of the alehouses in King's Landing. According to the detailed notes left behind by the late Lord Jon Arryn, the woman had blonde hair."

"How do you know Lady Cersei committed incest?"

Oberyn leant forward with interest. It was one thing to accuse one's lady wife of adultery, but incest?

Lord Stannis pulled out pieces of paper. Oberyn snuck a glance at Lady Cersei. She no longer carried that haughty look she had in the morning. "This one is from Lady Cersei to Ser Jaime," Lord Stannis announced. "It was written after Tommen was born." He walked up to Lord Stark. "Read it if you do not believe me my lord Stark. It is written here, clear as day." He produced another letter. "This is a letter from Lady Cersei to me. Same handwriting I believe."

Lord Stark glanced at the two pieces of parchment before giving both of them to the king who in turn handed them to Oberyn. " _My dearest Jaime_ ," Oberyn read aloud. Lord Stark hissed at him to cease talking. Oberyn ignored him. " _It had been months since I last tasted you,_ " Oberyn went on with a snicker, " _or felt you inside. I feel so incomplete without you, dear brother. I_ need _you. I had another son, Jaime. A future heir of Casterly Rock. A full-blooded Lannister, this one. A little cub. I named him Tommen before Stannis could give another one of my sons a horrid Baratheon name like Borros or Raymont or may the gods forbid, Davos, after his precious little Onion Knight. I wanted to name the babe Loreon – a true Lannister name – but as I was not allowed to name my firstborn Joffrey, I doubt Loreon would be accepted. I'll be eagerly waiting for your reply. Your sister, Cersei of House Lannister."_ Smirking, he gave that letter and the other one back to Lord Stannis who remained stoic as the courtiers present tittered and whispered.

"How did you find it?" Lady Cersei uttered, her face white with rage.

"You acknowledge that you wrote it, my lady?" Lord Stark asked.

"I never sent it! I never even wrote it!"

"It is in your handwriting my lady," Lord Stark pointed out. "You did ask, 'how did you find it' too. Now I'll ask you again my lady: is this letter yours?"

"No!"

Lord Stark looked unconvinced. He looked at King Robert who said loudly, "Is there anyone here who will speak for the Lady Cersei?"

A dark, shoulder-length copper haired man in his thirties stepped forward, his silk tunic emblazoned with an orange burning tree, on a smoky field. "I will speak for the Lady Cersei Your Grace," he declared. "I am Ser Addam Marbrand, the sole son of Lord Damon and heir of Ashemark."

The king nodded. "Speak, Ser Addam."

"Your Grace," Ser Addam began, after the High Septon had sworn him to speak only the truth, "I had the honour to have served as a page in Casterly Rock during my youth. During that time, I became familiar with both Ser Jaime Lannister and Lady Cersei Lannister. Whenever I saw Lady Cersei, she was a perfect lady. She'd never act wantonly or unseemly and was virtuous."

"And Ser Jaime?"

"Always wanted to be a knight in his childhood Your Grace. He'd focused more on learning to be the best swordsman than sleeping with maidens and harlots. A lot of maidens offered themselves to him too."

"After hearing all of Lord Stannis's evidence against Lady Cersei, what do you have to say about it?"

Ser Addam hesitated – only for a second but Oberyn caught it. "Lady Cersei's a good and virtuous woman," he said without falter. "If she says that letter was not written by her hand, then it isn't. Perhaps my lord Hand thinks that accusing the Lady Cersei of adultery and incest will weaken House Lannister enough for all of the debts to House Lannister can be forgotten or forgiven. If that is the case Your Grace, then all the evidence said is false, even if Lord Stannis swears it to be true. Maybe Lord Stannis desires for his heir to inherit both Casterly Rock and Storm's End thus forcing his second son to embark on a martial career. Noticing Tommen having the Lannister blonde hair instead of Baratheon black, maybe Lord Stannis decided to have him disinherited on some ridiculous charge."

"That is outrageous Ser Addam!" snapped Lord Stannis, crossing his arms.

Oberyn could not help but scoff. The grim Stannis Baratheon concocting such a shocking plot just to secure Casterly Rock for his heir? "That is quite a thought," he smirked. "What makes you think it is true?"

"What other possibility is there Prince Oberyn?" said Ser Addam testily.

"Will anyone else speak out for Lady Cersei?" said the king loudly.

To Oberyn's surprise, a septa stepped forward. Though she was covered from head to toe in grey cloth, Oberyn suspected she was highborn by the gracefulness of her walking. He was also reminded of the time he bedded Tyene's mother, that fair-haired septa with the plumpest red lips he'd ever kissed. Oh, that was quite a memorable night at Oldtown.

"I'll speak for the Lady Cersei Your Grace," she said calmly. "I am Septa Adalais. I taught Lady Cersei in her girlhood and supervised her. Whenever she was in my sight, she acted with proper decorum."

"What of the time when she wasn't?" questioned Oberyn. "Can you still swear by the Seven that she was as virtuous as the Maiden?"

Septa Adalais stared at him icily.

"Well, Septa?" prompted Lord Stark.

"Only the Seven knows," the septa answered, "but it was my duty to watch the Lady Cersei from dawn to dusk, which I did. She'd never displayed inappropriate actions under my watch my lord."

"We will resume tomorrow," the king declared, standing up. "Return Ser Jaime and Lady Cersei to their cells." He headed out of the throne room. Oberyn turned to Lord Stark. "No discussion?" he asked.

"I believe the king is bored," Lord Stark said uncertainly. "I'll be happy to hear your input, Prince Oberyn. Do you believe Lady Cersei committed incest?"

"I have no love for the Baratheons or Lannisters," said Oberyn bluntly. "That is a fact. I would not be here if it wasn't for my brother Prince Doran wishing for us Dornish to have better and more peaceful relations with the Iron Throne. I heard I am to be an advisor on the Small Council – the king's idea?"

"Lord Stannis's actually."

Of course. "I do not like Baratheons, but I cannot believe Lord Stannis to be an excellent liar, or even a good liar. Did Ser Addam seem a little hesitant to you?"

"Yes. I found his testimony…useless. People change and Lady Cersei could've. I am willing to believe Lady Cersei was a virtuous maiden in her youth, but what of now? Her defence rests on her childhood, even with the septa's testimony. I don't think that will help Lady Cersei very much."

Oberyn nodded in agreement. "Lord Stannis's evidence is quite strong. All that about the Baratheon traits was quite clever. I must say, Stannis Baratheon knew what he was doing during that trial. You think she's guilty my lord?"

"That letter proves incest and adultery. However, I don't believe she would've left it lying around in her chambers for Lord Stannis to find."

"Oh?" Oberyn's black eyes gleamed with interest. "Reckon it was planted?"

Lord Stark frowned. "Planted?"

"A marvellous word I learnt from a Summer Islander. Do you think that letter was put there on purpose?"

"Perhaps by one who despises Lannisters." Lord Stark's grey eyes lingered on Oberyn. "Lord Stannis wouldn't write it. Maybe someone who wishes to cause an unnecessary amount of discord between Houses Baratheon and Lannister."

Oberyn chuckled and rubbed his hands. "You sound like you are accusing me! I admit I am a strong suspect, but I can assure you my lord Stark, that I have never set foot in Storm's End. Well, I have visited the Stormlands with Elia, but as there were no Baratheon girl suitable for me, my lady mother decided not to take us to Storm's End." He quietened. Perhaps they should've went to Storm's End. Maybe Elia would have married Robert Baratheon. At least then she wouldn't have been raped and murdered by Tywin Lannister's ruthless dogs. No, Robert Baratheon's as bad as Rhaegar Targaryen. He wouldn't love Elia or care for her; he would still turn to fuck his favourite whores.

"…Lady Cersei is still guilty though," Lord Stark was saying.

"Quite so," Oberyn murmured, his thoughts occupied by Elia. They were more sadder reflections, not the contemplations of revenge that had oft consumed him since the day he received news of Elia and Rhaenys's deaths. "Who'll be the brave one to inform the old lion of Lannister? One of us will have to tell him that both of us – and His Grace most likely – plan to announce the verdict soon."

"He already knows."

"Oh?" Oberyn was more bemused than surprised. "Is there anything else that I need to know about, Lord Stark? When did you tell Lord Tywin the news? Was it done to rob me of a chance to see the proud lion fall?"

"Not at all Prince Oberyn. Surely you were at court the day Lord Tywin arrived, seeking an audience?"

Oberyn was disappointed. "I see. Did he grovel at least?"

"He offered to forgive the king of all the Crown's debts to House Lannister. It'd been quite generous of him but Lord Stannis refused to negotiate. He said naught will change his mind from getting justice or something."

"That's not surprising. I admit I do not know Lord Stannis that well, but from a brief chat with him the other day, I learnt he loves justice as much as his brother the king loves his whores." He smirked again as Lord Stark's expression changed from solemn to uncomfortable. "Come now Lord Stark, you know it is the truth is it not? One brother loves his harlots and the other justice. Aren't all brothers like that? Well, Doran loves patience more than justice."

"Forgive me Prince Oberyn, but I promised to watch my son Bran train today. I am afraid I'm already a little late."

Oberyn nodded. "Until tomorrow then Lord Stark."

Lord Stark dipped his head. "Prince Oberyn."

Feeling the need for another cup of Dornish strongwine, Oberyn headed to his chambers. Perros Blackmont was nowhere to be seen. _Probably off to spend time with Lady Myria Jordayne_ , pondered Oberyn, opening the door of his room. Over the last few weeks, Perros had spent more time with the Jordayne heir. The Lord of the Tor didn't seem displeased with him either.

"Prince Oberyn."

Oberyn instantly reached for his dagger. He laughed as he saw his unexpected guest was the Spider. "Lord Varys," Oberyn said cheerfully. "We meet again."

"It has been some time Prince Oberyn," said Varys the Spider softly. "I thought it is time for us to meet here at King's Landing and talk. I believe the last time we met and had our…little chat, was in Blackhaven. You went to visit the young Lord of Starfall and I went as a beggar." Oberyn nodded. He poured himself a goblet of wine. He poured another and offered it to Varys who declined with a smile. "How fares the trial for Lady Cersei?"

"You are the Master of Whisperers," Oberyn pointed out. "You tell me."

The eunuch giggled like a girl. "Was my letter well-received?"

Oberyn was taken back. " _Your_ letter? Why do you want her deemed guilty? Do you know what will happen to Tommen and Myrcella?"

"For the good of Westeros, my prince. For the true cause. Both the honourable Lord Stark and the king will declare Lady Cersei guilty of adultery and incest. You, my prince? Innocence? I can assure you that she is guilty, but say you declare her innocent, what then?"

Oberyn crossed his arms. "Why will I save the life of a Lannister?"

Varys lowered his voice to half a whisper. "The Old Lion will not live for much longer. Do you not wonder why the Imp Tyrion did not speak? If he does, he will lose his chances of inheriting Casterly Rock. When _he_ sails, there will be war. The Lannisters won't fight for King Robert, but what if they fight for _him_? A Lannister always pays his debts. Declaring Lady Cersei innocent is enough for you to earn a place in his debt list."

Oberyn considered it. Either way he was to fight against the Baratheons when the fateful day came. "It will be good to have another ally, no matter how uneasy," he said at last.

The Spider smiled. "Indeed my prince." His smile disappeared when he placed a heavily powdered hand on Oberyn's. "My condolences too."

"Your condolences?" Oberyn frowned. He wasn't aware that someone close to him had died. "For what?"

The plump eunuch's eyes widened. "You haven't heard, Prince Oberyn?"

"Heard what?" said Oberyn impatiently. He hated being in the dark.

"I am so sorry Prince Oberyn. Your brother Prince Doran…he is dead."

* * *

 **I haven't actually written a court scene before, with judges and witnesses and everything, so it was interesting and a new experience for me :)**


	90. Dacey

The floor of fallen pine leaves and dirt muffled the sound of Dacey's well-worn, dark leather boots as she crept towards the edge of the Eastern Woods. As silent as a peaceful bear, she pulled an arrow from her quiver and notched it to her old, weirwood bow. Dacey cautiously approached the abandoned hut built at the very end of the Eastern Woods facing the northern mountains and the southron coast of the Skirling Pass. From the corner of her eye, she saw her sister Alysane slowly crouch down, her bow and arrow at the ready. Dacey squinted. Yes, three boats – small rowboats – were heading her way.

Wildlings.

Dacey turned to Alysane. _Kill them_ , she mouthed, making a shooting gesture. _It is Mother's orders. No wildling survivors today_. Over the last few days, the wildling sightings had increased rapidly – even more so than the Ironborn threat. Dacey's mother Lady Maege had in fact arranged for more men to be on wildling watch in the last few days than Ironborn patrol. "Men on wildling watch haven't increased in years," Mother had told Dacey and her sisters when they first noticed frequent wildling attempts to sail from Beyond the Wall to Northern lands. "Not since the rule of your great, great grandmother Lady Joss Mormont." She then scowled. "It is disgraceful, both Ironborn and wildlings. Both steal instead of sow like thieves caught and sent to the Wall."

 _No interrogation?_ Alysane mouthed back, slightly disappointed. Dacey studied Alysane's heavily callused hands. They were still bruised after she _persuaded_ one of the captured wildlings to reveal a part of their plan. Alysane emerged with her hands covered in the wildling's blood; the wildling died a couple of hours later. It wasn't what Dacey would've done, but Mother had gave her approval with a curt, short nod and that was enough for Alysane.

Dacey shook her head. _No interrogation_. There was no point. Even if a weaker, more cowardly wildling did scream out vital information, sending a raven to the black brothers was almost impossible. The only useful information Alysane took out of that wildling was the confirmation that wildlings had been shooting down their ravens, the educated ones reading the messages and many of them cooking and eating the ravens apparently. The last Dacey viewed with doubt. Ravens had meat, but not much of it. She had never eaten a raven and never heard of a man – or woman – who had. Then again, wildlings did eat unusual food for survival and perhaps raven meat was one of them. Dacey suppressed a shudder. She waited as the three rowboats slowly came closer. It would be at least a quarter or even half of an hour until they were within shooting range. As Mother oft said, wilding and Ironborn watch was a waiting game.

"Reckon we'd be sailing to the mainland soon?" muttered Alysane, "to fight for real? All we've been doing for the last few weeks is shooting wildlings."

"We are defending Bear Island," Dacey said softly, her eyes fixed on the boats. It wasn't the first time Alysane complained that she was bored of wildling watch and wished Mother would send her with men to help fight at the Wall. "Besides, I don't think the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch will be pleased to see us at the Wall. We are women after all."

Alysane snorted. "Lord Commander Mallister is in no position to be picky."

Dacey sighed. "Troops were sent here to help _defend_ Bear Island. If a wildling army lands and wins, they gain a wildling base and have a foot into the North. It's what we don't want. Why do you think most of the northern troops are placed on the coast of Bay of Seals and here?"

"Oh don't give me that lecture again."

"Then _help_ defend our home, Alysane. If you don't want to be on patrol, you're more than welcome to help train the younger ones." When it was a time of war or battle, training sessions doubled in case there were heavy losses.

"Why do you think Mother sent Lyanna to Winterfell? Lyanna is old enough to join us in wilding patrol. If she was a babe in arms, sending her to the heart of the North would make sense. If Bear Island was under attack at all sides by Ironborn and wildlings, Mother would have ordered an evacuation for _all_ of the children of Bear Island, not just Lyanna."

"Precautions perhaps. Wildlings are like Ironborn; cruel and vicious. If they do land here and defeat us, they will not spare any of us, child or greybeard. When it is all over, there won't be a single Bear Islander left. In days, Bear Island will be a wildling territory instead of northern land."

"That is a vast precaution, Sister. Bear Island will not fall to wildling scum."

"Any piece of land can fall to wildlings if it isn't properly defended," said Dacey bluntly. "You know that as well as I do. The boats will be here soon, so make your choice, Alysanne. Wildling watch with me or training. You are fortunate that it is our mother who is Lady of Bear Island, not our former good-aunt. If she was still here, one of us would've had to train _her_."

Alysane rolled her eyes. "By the old gods don't remind me. We would have lost Bear Island if that southron woman was still here. What Uncle Jorah had done…it was shameful. He should've married a good northern woman. What is it with our northern men and southron women? In the last two decades or so, I swear more northmen have married southroners than the last hundred years. Lord Stark to a _Dornishwoman_ of all southroners; our uncle Jorah to that proud Hightower girl, a Manderly to another southron lady, Lady Lyarra to Crown Prince Orys Baratheon and who knows who else!" She shook her head. "The North's no longer the North with all those marriages to southroners."

"You cannot blame the Lady Lyarra's to the crown prince's."

"Those wildlings are taking quite a long time to navigate here."

"Maybe they are fishing on the way."

Alysane snorted a second time. "Can you see fishing rods or nets? No, fishing is not on the wildlings' agenda for today."

Sighing, Dacey waited patiently. After half an hour trickled by as slowly as the water in a small stream, the three rowboats were finally in sight. There were two wildings on two boats and three on the third. The numbers were a little less than the last batch of wildlings, but seven wildlings dead was still better than none.

 _On three_ , Dacey signalled to Alysane.

 _One…_

Dacey aimed at the head of the second wildling on the second boat.

Two…

Dacey carefully pulled the bowstring back.

 _…_ _three!_

In unison, two arrows flew into the sky and hit their targets. There was shout; the wildlings looked straight at the old hut Dacey and Alysane hid near. Instantly, more arrows were pulled out.

 _Twang! Twang! Twang! Twang! Twang!_

Within a minute, all the wildlings on the three boats were incapacitated, if not shot dead. Standing up, Dacey kept an eye on the boats as Alysane's shrill whistle pierced the air. Almost as if they appeared out of nowhere, four men garbed from head to toe in hunting gear emerged from the trees. "Have those rowboats pulled onto land," said Dacey, jerking her head in the direction of the boats. "Three more rowboats would be useful for us."

"Aye milady," grunted the tallest with dark eyes and brown hair. "What are we to do with the wildling scum?"

"Toss them into the water," said Alysane promptly. Her smirk showed her two rows of crooked teeth. "If dead, the fish can eat them. If not…they might be lucky if they can swim to shore."

"Aye milady," the four men said together. Giving them a final nod, Dacey began to head back through the Eastern Woods to Mormont Keep with Alysane. "I'd not have minded a swim," said Alysane thoughtfully.

"In your armour?" questioned Dacey.

Alysane chuckled. "Of course not! I'd have taken it off!" Dacey said naught. Her sister was in her usual attire: sheepskin layers under the boiled leather that was nicely covered by ringmail and a thick, warm fur cloak. It would've taken Alysane quite some time to remove the clothing unfit for swimming. All the inhabitants of Bear Island knew how to swim since they were babes. Swimming in the icy water in winter was unadvisable, but at times those brave enough would do so to find a fish or two for supper. The majority of them didn't survive the night.

As the two of them quietly approached the wood-walled castle surrounded by an earthen palisade, Alysane whistled again. "The fire's been lit early, Sister." Her dark brown eyes focused on the keep. "Mother's entertaining."

"It must be important," murmured Dacey. Curious, she sped up. The main gate adorned with the carving of a woman in bearskin with a babe suckling at her left breast in one arm and a battleaxe in the other, was already opened. She strode in, Alysane behind her, and was surprised to see that the three guests seated on the dais were Eddard Karstark, Lord Karstark's second son; a young man bearing the sigil of House Flint of the mountains; and astonishingly, Jon Snow.

All of them were now looking at her and Alysane. Thankfully, Mother rose and said, "My lords, I believe you have not yet met my two elder daughters Dacey and Alysane. Daughters, these are Lord Eddard of House Karstark, Lord Morgan Flint of the mountains and Ser Jon Snow." Dacey dipped her head at each man, even at Jon Snow. Bastard he may be, he was one of the few northmen that was knighted. Dacey didn't know many northern knights – the only other she distinctly recalled was her uncle _Ser_ Jorah Mormont. Oh, and the Winterfell master-at-arms. She did not remember his name. Was it Rodwell? Robar? Rodmar? On Bear Island, House Mormont had no master-at-arms. Whilst the elder two Mormont children trained to rule Bear Island (better to train a spare than none), it'd be one of the younger children destined to be the next master-at-arms, though that title was not used. It wasn't needed; every Mormont born had a purpose to serve.

"Miladies," grunted Morgan Flint. "Warrior women eh?"

Dacey nodded firmly. "What brings you my lord, Lord Eddard and Ser Jon here to our hearth? Last we heard, you were fighting wildlings."

"Aye," spoke Eddard Karstark. Dacey noticed he was glancing at Alysane more with interest. He pointed at the blossoming black eye on his face. "Punched by an aggressive wildling cunt, if you forgive my language my lady. We thought that the wildlings would attack the coast closer to Brandon's Gift, but they surprised us in the forests in my father's lands. If we didn't have scouts roaming around, Karhold might have fallen to wildlings."

"What? How did they manage to run through Umber lands?"

Eddard Karstark's lips twisted into a scowl. "We suspect they had sailed from Hardhome and then around Skagos. It only makes sense that savages would have chosen to ally themselves with other savages. It would've taken them longer, but they would've had the upper hand if it wasn't for the scouts. Four of them died in the battle you know. Killed violently by the wildlings."

"Clever plan," said Alysane dryly. "The usual batch of wildlings attacking at the Wall and Brandon's Gift and some sailing past Skagos."

"That is not all," said Morgan Flint, his icy blue eyes flashing with fury. "Those savage wildlings are invading the mountains! In masses! What is there weapon of choice? Fire. They would attack villages, rob them of whatever they can hold and then burn the crops to starve us. Just the other day, a band of wildlings stole two goats from my father's herd. I will have their heads for this!"

"Troops have been sent to the mountains I believe," Dacey's mother then said calmly. "I doubt Lord Stark would leave you undefended. You are his cousin after all." She rose from her seat, pushing a strand of grey hair behind her ear. "Please forgive me my lords, Ser Jon," she said as the men stood up too. "I must go and be ready for my round of wildling patrol. Every man and woman in Bear Island must play his or her part to help defend our homes. I'll leave you all in Dacey's capable hands. Anything you wish to discuss, please converse with her and Alysane, if it's matters of war or other." Dacey maintained a composed expression. Mother was giving her a chance to practise conversing as the future Lady of Bear Island.

Once Mother retreated from the Great Hall, Eddard Karstark looked at Alysane again. "What is it?" said Alysane sharply. "I'm not a horse my lord."

"Nothing my lady," said Eddard Karstark swiftly.

Alysane narrowed her eyes dangerously. "It's not nothing my lord of Karstark. I'm no stranger to that look. Inspecting the goods – is that it, eh? I am a mother of two. Two cubs I birthed from fucking a bear."

Ser Jon Snow almost choked on his cup of plain ale whilst Morgan Flint stared at Alysane with fascination. Dacey repressed a shrewd smile. Every time Alysane was confronted by an overzealous and probably power hungry suitor, she would tell him the same tale of her two nights sleeping with a bear. Whether it was true or not, she did birth to two children: four year old Eirlys and two year old Rodrik. Both of them were acknowledged Snows, but were raised as any trueborn child of House Mormont would be raised – as warriors.

"A bear?" said Eddard Karstark, amused. "That will be quite an interesting tale to tell my good-brother Harlon Umber."

Ah, of course. The great Mormont-Umber-Karstark alliance that Mother was in the middle of finalising. If all went to plan, Lyra will marry Eddard Karstark and a lord of House Umber (probably Harlon) will wed Alysane. Trade between Houses Mormont, Umber and Karstark would improve significantly as it'd be their lands first to greet the looming winter.

Alysane scowled. "Tell him what you like my lord."

Dacey cleared her throat. "The matter of the wildlings is more important right now is it not my lords? We can discuss betrothals at a later time."

Ser Jon nodded. "That would be best my lady." He hesitated. "Morale is sorely lacking, my lady. Not in the Karhold forests or Umber lands, but at the Wall. I fear that with a lack of morale, the men will lose hope. Even with the troops sent, half the black brothers reckon we'll all die as there are far too many wildlings and too less soldiers. Some of the southron troops are on their way, but um, there are still those who complain southron soldiers have no idea how to fight wildlings."

That was a fair point. When it came to wildlings, one ought to kill them on the spot as one would dispose a poisonous weed; trading wildlings for ransom was a notion that was practically unheard of.

"The Wall has not suffered heavy losses," said Alysane reasonably. "I don't see a reason for morale to be low. Besides, most of the men are defending their lands, aren't they? Morale should be high."

"Not for the men on the Wall," said Ser Jon Snow sombrely. "Half of them were forced to take the black in order to avoid death."

"Why did you choose to come here Ser?" Dacey asked.

"I was sent away," said Ser Jon flatly. "I helped push back some wildlings, but I also missed the chance to shoot a dangerous enemy. It was unacceptable to all of the black brothers. Even the Umbers there were disgusted. To avoid a vast fuss, I was sent away by my uncle. He suggested it would be best for me to come here to inform you of the recent developments before travelling to Shadow Tower to aid the black brothers there."

"Dangerous enemy?" questioned Alysane. "Mance Rayder?"

Ser Jon shook his head. "Lord Umber's prisoner. The vicious wildling woman – Ygritte I think her name is. Lord Commander Mallister tried to negotiate a sort of peace treaty with Mance Rayder which included the trade of prisoners. It wasn't the best of ideas, but the men of the Night's Watch needed a respite. Even with all the northern troops helping them fight, they were exhausted. Thankfully though, the King-Beyond-the-Wall was kind enough to agree to one hour of peace for the purpose of discussing a truce. I wasn't there, but apparently, some wildlings took the opportunity to attack the Umber party returning to Last Hearth. They'd freed Ygritte and killed all but one of the Umber party. They tried to escape, but they'd been caught and battle ensured. I hesitated." His expression was pained. "It…it is a mistake I'll never do again."

"What happened?" said Alysane bluntly. Dacey shot her a warning look but Ser Jon shook his head. "Lady Dacey, Lord Morgan and Lord Eddard already know. It is only right that you and Lady Alysane are told the truth too. Better from my lips than an Umber's." He closed his eyes for a second. "She tripped over something – I think it was a dead body – and landed at my feet. Men were yelling at me to kill her. I don't know why none of them killed her themselves. The wildling looked at me and begged for mercy, but her eyes remained malicious."

"All wildling eyes gleam hatred and lies," growled Morgan Flint.

 _As do yours my lord_ , thought Dacey. "Pray go on Ser Jon," she said instead.

"I did nothing," said Ser Jon more quietly. "I allowed her to stand and run. If it wasn't bad enough…" He bit his lip. "As she ran away, she threw a dagger at me. I dodged it, but Oswin Umber moved too late."

"Greatjon Umber lost a brother and two sons to the wildlings now," remarked Eddard Karstark. "His hatred for them would've grown sevenfold."

"All lads make mistakes," said Morgan Flint gruffly. "Wildlings are schemers – especially their women. Honour dictates we don't harm women, but it's another story when it comes to wildlings. In my first skirmish when I was a young man a year or two younger than Ser Jon here, I learnt a valuable lesson. When you catch a wildling, you never let him or her go. My father had often warned me about the true nature of wildlings. I believed I knew more than he did and when I was sent off to rid a village of raiding wildlings, I went confidently. Around then, I was in a discrete affair with one of the village girls. Pretty girl, but in truth a wildling. I did not know a wildling had infiltrated the village months ago – no one did. When I'd saw her helping the wildlings, I went into shock. The village lost all its grains and stores and half the men died in their attempt to stop the wildlings."

"We all make mistakes," spoke Dacey. "We learn from them."

Eddard Karstark stood up. "May I have a word with you alone, my lady?"

* * *

"When I wished to speak to you alone, I did not expect you to take me hunting, my lady. Hunting alone too!"

Dacey chuckled. "Mormont Keep is too small for privacy my lord. Now what is it you wish to discuss with me?"

"The wildlings will win," said Eddard Karstark bluntly. "They are united with a clear, single cause: invading the North. We? We are hardly united, my lady. There are plenty of men, but where is Lord Stark? Every time there is an enormous and deadly wildling threat, we had a Lord of Winterfell at our side, fighting with us. If not Lord Stark, his trueborn sons and brothers. There was always a Stark general uniting us together. Not this time though. You are defending Bear Island, Umbers are defending their lands and my family defending our lands. Yes we send men to the Wall, but that is all we do."

"Benjen Stark is at the Wall and so was Ser Jon-"

"A man of the Night's Watch and a green boy," the Karstark man cut in. "They are not in any position to unite us all against the wildlings. Do you know that the Lord of the Dreadfort had withdrawn half his men due to Robb Stark's actions? It only ruined any chances of unity. Lord Stark is playing lapdog to the king, his heir is a coward hiding behind the walls of Winterfell, Bran Stark is learning the fancy southron swordplay and Lord Stark's two youngest sons are still children. I don't think any of them are true northerners anymore my lady. They have spent more time in the south than here with us fighting wildlings."

Dacey frowned. "My lord of Karstark, the younger Stark boys are children and at Winterfell as you said. I doubt they have set foot in the south before."

"They are malleable. The Umbers and my family are in agreement that all was better when a true, northern Stark ruled the North. Did you hear that Robb Stark will be a father soon?" Dacey nodded. "He will not rule the North," he went on. "It will never be accepted."

"You wished to speak to me about the Winterfell succession? Lord Eddard, we were in the middle of discussing the wildling war!"

"The Winterfell succession has everything to do with the wildling war. Eddard Stark is needed here, not in the south. Robb Stark must be removed. If those two wishes are not met, we are doomed to fail. The Wall will fall; the wildlings will be victorious. Is that what you want, my lady?"

Eddard Karstark was treading on dangerous ground. "Only the old gods know what the future holds," Dacey said carefully. "It may be Robb Stark and his line of sons will never rule; it may be they do." Her dark brown eyes met his. "For now, I will do naught but defend Bear Island. Here I stand, my lord of Karstark. Here I'll stand with my mother and sisters. _Here We Stand_."

* * *

 **It would've made more sense for Jon, Eddard Karstark and Morgan Flint to go straight to Shadow Tower, but I decided for them to visit the Mormonts first so they can talk about the wildling situation. Even though I don't particularly enjoy writing about it, I thought it would be more interesting to have the wildling situation read through conversations than letters. I enjoyed writing in Dacey's POV and might write another chapter in her POV in Part 4.**


	91. Eddard XIV

"Poor Myrcella and Tommen," Lyarra was saying. "They are so sweet-natured. They don't deserve to suffer for their lady mother's sins." She looked at Ned with a pleading look in her eyes. "They are still children after all."

Ned poked at a plump sausage almost bursting with fat, with his knife. He was in no mood to eat. In half an hour, he was to announce the verdict of the trial. The lives of the Lady Cersei Lannister, Myrcella and Tommen were in his hands. Ned hated it. His fellow judges weren't particularly helpful either. The king never had much interest in the entire trial proceedings and during the short discussion last night, Prince Oberyn seemed more distant and occupied. Gone were his sarcastic remarks and smirks; it was like he was a different man.

"Apparently the Most Devout are demanding a say in the punishment of Lady Cersei and Ser Jaime," Ashara remarked, nibbling on a piece of fried bread. "They seem to already think you will declare them guilty."

"I thought it is Lady Cersei's trial, Father?"

"Father, do you think Syrio is on his way home to Braavos?"

Abandoning the sausage, Ned looked around at the solemn faces of his family members (those present). Ashara sat at his left as usual and Arya and Bran were sitting opposite him as they did almost every morning. Lyarra had chosen to dine with them rather than with her husband and in-laws. Ned was relieved to see she had a happier and healthier glow around her. "The glow of a fresh bride," Ashara had told him. When Lyarra first stepped into King's Landing, she was so thin and lost the rosy tinge in her cheeks. It was a relief to see a touch of pink return. Bran was cheerful as always, and more enthusiastic about his training than before, and Arya seemed to have settled in – a tiny fraction more than before.

"I'll be more than happy to hear what the High Septon has to say," Ned said at last. It was his first time dealing with an adulterous woman in the southron way. The North was not much kinder to adulteresses though. Either the woman was to be returned – in disgrace – to her family where she would live her remaining last years (no matter how long or short) imprisoned and hidden from sight, and her former husband compensated with coins, a new bride or goods; or a hanging and her children declared illegitimate. From memory, the Boltons and a few Umbers, pursued the latter option to deal with their adulterous wives. The mountain clan men preferred the former, as furs and food supplies were rarer and considered a lot more valuable than punishing the women and killing them.

"I thought it is Lady Cersei's trial," Bran said again uncertainly.

"It is," Ned assured him, "but Ser Jaime is also guilty."

"What about Syrio?" said Arya hopefully.

"We'll see," said Ned quietly. He liked the Braavosi and was very pleased when he heard of Arya's improvement in water dancing, but it had to end eventually – why not now? Arya would never turn into a proper lady but perhaps a little time away from the training yard and Syrio might calm her down slightly. Ned wanted to kick himself for even thinking about that. Arya was wolf-blooded; she'd never settle down when forced or demanded. She would eventually find a way to carry on her training or worse, run away and sail to Braavos.

"Are you alright, Father?" said Lyarra anxiously.

Ned forced himself to smile. "Thinking, that is all." He stood up. He had enough time for a last minute talk with Robert and Prince Oberyn and even with the High Septon. "I will see you all after the trial," he muttered. He hurried out and headed to the Great Hall. Thankfully Oberyn and the High Septon were already there.

"Lord Stark," drawled Prince Oberyn, noticing Ned. "You are here early."

"As are you Prince Oberyn," Ned returned. He looked at the High Septon. "You are here early too Your High Holiness."

The High Septon said pompously, "I'm here to discuss punishments."

Ned nodded. "What do you suggest, High Septon?"

"Stoning or the stake," the fat High Septon replied at once. "Adulteresses must be dealt with harshly Lord Stark. When rooted out, they must be used as example to other women who harbour adultery in their thoughts."

"Is that not a little harsh, Your High Holiness?"

"She is guilty!"

"I believe she is innocent," said Prince Oberyn suddenly. Ned stared at him. "I thought we agreed she is guilty?" he couldn't help ask tentatively. "What could've

possibly changed your mind?"

The Dornish prince shrugged. "I don't believe Lady Cersei wrote the letter. If it – the incest – was true, she wouldn't write about it. It also seems a little too…easy. The perfect prosecution case and a weak defence? How oft did Lord Stannis even live with his lady wife? As the King's Hand, Lord Stannis is more often here, isn't he? I doubt he would've noticed Lady Cersei fucking other men unless someone – or maybe a few people – told him. The adultery part I can believe; incest, I'm not sure. Why didn't Lady Cersei drink moon tea? Surely she would! The letter was a juicy piece of reading, but only a fool would write it. I don't believe Lady Cersei is a fool, Lord Stark."

Ned sighed in frustration. Robert already thought Cersei Lannister was guilty.

"Lady Cersei is guilty," said Ned firmly. "You say that letter is um planted, but Lord Stannis provided us with a sample of Lady Cersei's handwriting. You saw it. Does that not convince you Lady Cersei wrote it?"

"Not particularly Lord Stark," said Prince Oberyn mildly. "You're the Master of Laws. Your decision carries more weight. If you say Lady Cersei is guilty, so be it. I do implore a kinder punishment."

"That is outrageous Prince Oberyn!" said the High Septon angrily. "All women who commit adultery must die!"

"Send her to the silent sisters," Prince Oberyn continued, as if the High Septon had not spoken. "Lady Cersei will find repentance there. Isn't it better than death, Lord Stark? More merciful?"

"Yes," agreed Ned. "Lady Cersei will be sent to the silent sisters. Ser Jaime had confessed to Lord Stannis so he will be sent to the Wall. The Night's Watch needs able men – especially in their war against the wildlings – and no one can say that Ser Jaime _isn't_ one of the best fighters in Westeros. Myrcella and Tommen will be given mercy. Declaring them illegitimate is punishment enough for children, but if Lord Stannis and the Most Devout are insistent, Tommen doesn't seem to enjoy swordplay as much for a boy his age, so the Wall will be too harsh for him. Maybe the Citadel or a septry. Myrcella will be sent to a motherhouse. I'm certain there's no complaints there? Prince Oberyn? Your High Holiness?"

"Perfect," said Prince Oberyn smoothly. "You know I deplore harsh treatment against innocent children my lord Stark."

* * *

His heart pounded unusually steady like a loud drum as Ned waited for all the courtiers to settle. From the oak-and-iron doors to the council table, there were a sea of lords and ladies. Glancing up at the gallery, Ned saw that it too was full. Of course the Great Hall would be crowded today – everyone wanted to witness the sentencing of Lord Tywin's golden twins.

"Lord Stark." Ned's gaze was pulled away from the gallery to the frowning face of the High Septon. "The Most Devout are most displeased," the High Septon said, handing him a piece of paper. "They said your decision to send Lady Cersei to the silent sisters is too soft a punishment for an adulteress. However, if you agree to give Lady Cersei this punishment before sending her to the silent sisters, we will all be content with the verdict."

Ned glanced at the paper where three words were scrawled on in a hurry. His eyes widened at once. By the old gods…the southroners were cruel indeed.

 _Walk of atonement_.

"This will shatter the remnants of the Baratheon-Lannister alliance," Ned said, frowning deeply. That alliance was already in the dust but there was the smallest glimmer of restoration. If the walk of atonement follows through…

"Souls are at stake my lord," said the High Septon stiffly. "The most heinous of sins have been committed and souls must be saved."

Ned glanced at Prince Oberyn. To his irritation, Prince Oberyn didn't look a bit interested. "So be it," said Ned heavily. "However, I'll make it clear that it was the wish of the Most Devout, not the judges."

The High Septon nodded. "Very well."

It wasn't long before the royal family appeared. Robert first, his queen second, Crown Prince Orys and Lyarra next, followed by Prince Ormund and the Princess Lyanna and Princess Minisa. Robert sat down on the Iron Throne and gave a nod at Ned. Ned took a deep breath. It was time to reveal the verdict.

"Your Graces, my princes and princesses, my lords and ladies," said Ned loudly, praying silently that all would go well. "After a lengthy discussion with my fellow judges His Grace the king and Prince Oberyn, we reached a final decision." Taking another deep breath, he looked at the expressionless Lord Tywin who stood near the Iron Throne, surrounded by two Baratheon guards. "Though it'd not been an overall unanimous result," Ned went on. "As Master of Laws, I, Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Lord Paramount of the North, declare Ser Jaime Lannister guilty of incest and Lady Cersei Lannister guilty of incest and adultery. Moreover, due to Lady Cersei Lannister's part in her incestuous relationship with Ser Jaime, her youngest children Myrcella and Tommen are deemed illegitimate in the eyes of the old gods and new." He glanced at the High Septon who nodded forcefully in strong agreement.

"And the sentencing?" prompted the king.

Swallowing his anxiety, Ned continued. "Ser Jaime will be stripped of his white cloak and be sent to the Wall where he will take the black. His High Holiness here decreed that Lady Cersei will perform the walk of atonement before entering the order of the silent sisters." His gaze fell on the terrified Myrcella and Tommen. "It has also been decided – if Lord Stannis agrees – for Tommen to enter a septry for a future as a septon or the Citadel if he wishes to be a maester. Myrcella will join a motherhouse if Lord Stannis permits."

Lord Tywin's gold-specked green eyes shone with anger and…resignation. As Cersei screamed at her father to do something, Ned watched Lord Tywin. The old lion of Lannister would never just stand there and do nothing – unless he plotted a secondary plan of sorts already.

Wishing he was back at Winterfell, Ned began walking away, his heart sinking like a stone in the black, still pool in the Winterfell godswood. He hated the trial – why couldn't the king have presided over it as he should have? _Now everyone will remember me,_ thought Ned bitterly, _as the man who ruined Lord Tywin's legacy. I do not want this. I never did_. He felt humiliated – unusual as he was the one who'd done the sentencing, not awaiting the sentence.

"Lord Stark." Ser Kevan appeared in front of Ned. "There is still time to change your mind. For the children at least, my lord. For the children."

Ned looked at him sadly. Ser Kevan Lannister was not cruel or vindictive; kind and very capable more like it. "You know they can never wed or sire children," he said gently to Ser Kevan. "Especially Tommen. If Tommen has children, they'll be used against Steffon Baratheon and his descendants or even against whoever the next Lord of Casterly Rock is."

"Lord Baratheon will never acknowledge him or Myrcella, Lord Stark. Both the children will be abandoned to their fates. From one father to another, I implore a little mercy. For the _children_. Ser Jaime will not find the Wall particularly horrible and Lady Cersei deserves to spend the rest of her life with the silent sisters, but I do not wish harm or suffering upon the children. There's naught I can do, but _you_ can do so much, Lord Stark."

Ned shook his head. "I'm sorry Ser Kevan. The High Septon is already unhappy that Ser Jaime and Lady Cersei are not to be executed. I'll ensure the children are comfortable. That's the most I can do."

Ser Kevan sighed. "I suppose I'll resign my office then. I don't think a Lannister will be welcome in the small council for some time."

"Nonsense," said Ned firmly. "You are a good Master of Coin and will remain in that office. Lord Baratheon knows that too. He'll not dismiss you because of your family name, Ser Kevan. Besides, in all the council meetings we had, he seemed to be more pleased with your work than Petyr Baelish's from what I heard."

When Ned walked away, he noticed that Ser Kevan seemed a tiny bit happier.

* * *

"A sinner comes before you," the High Septon was droning to the sea of people before him in the plaza. "She's Cersei of House Lannister, daughter of Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and former wife of Lord Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and Hand of the King. She has committed the most grievous sin of adultery and also the sin of incest."

Shock, horror and disgust rippled through the ocean of smallfolk. Hidden from the watching crowd, Ned kept an eye on Lady Cersei. The High Septon insisted on Lady Cersei perform the walk of atonement that very afternoon. Lord Tywin had remained in his chambers in the Red Keep. In fact, no Lannister was in sight. Not Ser Jaime (he was already on his way to the Wall), not the Imp Tyrion and not Ser Kevan who was well away from the Great Sept of Baelor. The last time Ned found himself in the Great Sept was Lyarra's wedding day a few days ago. There were a vast sea of people then, even with the absence of the majority of the northerners, Vale lords (they didn't get enough time to travel south) and Ironborn who rarely attend mainland weddings. _Two different occasions,_ Ned reflected, _a wedding and now a walk of atonement…and both in a matter of days._ He vehemently hoped that with the trial now over, people would forget about it quickly.

"This will be remembered for years to come." Ned's grey eyes fell upon Prince Oberyn Martell who lurked near the back. He was talking to the eunuch Varys the Spider. "The Lannisters are finally falling," Prince Oberyn was saying, "though it's difficult to see Lord Tywin sitting around doing nothing. Do you think the old lion will try and find a new wife? Sire a new littler of cubs he can be proud of? I doubt any man will want their daughters married to him now." He chuckled. He looked up and saw Ned staring at him. The Red Viper grinned.

Pushing the Dornish prince's words out of his mind, Ned looked away. Having no desire to stay, he tapped Davos Seaworth, Lord Baratheon's representative on the shoulder. "I will return to the Red Keep," Ned said shortly. He'd rather return home, but hiding in the Red Keep was better than lingering in the Great Sept. "If I am asked for, please tell them I've gone back." The Onion Knight nodded. "I know you never wanted this milord Stark," he said quietly. "The sentencing of children and a mislead woman…only the brave and stubborn would do it."

Ned laughed bitterly. "Am I the brave or the stubborn?"

"The brave. Lord Baratheon is the stubborn one."

"Does Lord Baratheon know you think him stubborn?"

"He knows I speak the truth. That's all that matters."

 _When was the last time I spoke to Davos Seaworth?_ Ned wondered. "Tell me the truth then," he said to Lord Seaworth. "Why didn't you do anything to stop all the children finding out their mother committed adultery and incest?"

"I wanted to," said Davos Seaworth without hesitation. "I wanted to milord. I'd have done anything, but it would've aroused Lady Cersei's suspicion and my first order was to ensure Lady Cersei remained in the dark before her arrest. If all the children were escorted away from her, she would know something was up."

"And it would've ruined Lord Stannis's plans."

Lord Seaworth nodded. "Aye milord."

His lips tightening, Ned left. He found a horse and quietly rode to the Red Keep, avoiding the masses of people gathered to watch the walk of atonement. The first person Ned met when he returned was Robert himself.

"Back already Ned?" grunted the king, "Lady Cersei too much for you?"

"I do not find it joyful watching a lady walk from the Great Sept of Baelor back to the Red Keep without an article of clothing on," Ned answered. "I would never have given Lady Cersei that punishment; the High Septon insisted. I didn't want a large matter like the Faith to interfere with matters of state so I agreed." He told him how northerners dealt with adulteresses and when he finished, the king was barking with laughter. "Too soft!" Robert declared, slapping Ned on the shoulder. "Returning her to her family? Death?"

Ned frowned. "Soft? She'll be hanged with the knowledge that her children – if she has any – will be declared illegitimate, even if they _are_ trueborn."

"Fair enough," Robert acknowledged. His blue eyes brightened. "Just think in a few months, we will be back in the Eyrie, the place we were raised. Remember all those days, Ned?" He chuckled. "Good old days. We were young, hot-blooded, and I didn't have this massive lot of fat!" He patted his belly. "Ah, it will be good to see the Eyrie again. If only Jon is alive…"

"If only," Ned echoed. Jon Arryn was like a second father to him; the Eyrie too, a second home. "We will be there soon enough."

"Reckon those Vale wenches still know those tricks of theirs?"

Ned bit his lip to stop himself from blushing like a maiden. "I'm afraid you will have to find out when we get there Your Grace."

Robert wagged a thick finger at him. "Now, enough of that 'Your Grace' stuff. I told you before, didn't I?"

"You did, Robert," Ned conceded.

"Come Ned, have a drink with me. Cat will never know." Robert snickered. "Do you know that Renly's being rather helpful in that area? Every morning, I'd find a casket of Arbor gold on the table in my bedchamber. When Cat sees it, she'd have it taken away." He winked mischievously like he did so many times as a boy, "but Catelyn doesn't find all of it. Do you think I can ask Lord Redwyne to supply Lady Desmera's dowry in Arbor gold instead of gold?"

Ned frowned. "Lady Desmera's dowry? Is she not too old for Ormund?"

Robert barked with laughter. "By the Seven! For Ormund? Ha! No, I intend for her to marry Stannis! Stannis just rid himself of a wife and now he is in need for a new one. With Lannister threat lurking, we might need the Redwyne fleet. A good match, don't you agree? Stannis and Desmera Redwyne!"

Ned said nothing. When Robert Baratheon made up his mind, he was stubborn as a mule – all the Baratheons were. Lord Stannis would do his duty, but he'd not be happy at all, especially as his chosen bride was from the Reach. Another small problem was if Lady Desmera bears Stannis sons. What if the Reach declare Lady Desmera's eldest son the rightful Lord of Storm's End? The Lannisters would not be willing to support Steffon as it was his father Lord Stannis who arrested Lady Cersei. _Steffon is betrothed to Lady Alyssa Arryn_ , Ned reminded himself. _He'll have Vale support if it comes to a succession crisis in Storm's End._

There was a sudden commotion in the courtyard. "It looks like the Lady Cersei is back," commented Robert. "She will be shipped off to the silent sisters now eh? I'll make sure Lord Tywin is there to watch her leave."

"And the children?"

"They will leave for Oldtown around the same time."

Ned followed Robert back into the courtyard. They arrived to witness a silent sister drape a grey cloak over a tear-faced Lady Cersei. Ned looked away as Lady Cersei turned and stared at him. He wished he never announced the final verdict or the sentencing. He wished he was never chosen as a judge. Lord Stannis might consider this a victory of sorts, but Ned suspected something worse was to occur. He watched Grand Maester Pycelle shuffle forward and hand Lady Cersei a small bottle. "Sleeping draught," the Grand Maester was telling her, "for your journey. I hear the smallfolk are in a frenzied mood. Best to sleep for the night. You will not wish to hear the smallfolk's jeering my lady."

 _Will she use it?_ Ned pondered, as Lady Cersei accepted the tiny vial. She never did seem the type to hide from cruel, mocking words, but after what she endured in the last hour or more…

One would never know.

* * *

 **Question: in your opinion, who should be Tywin's successor as Lord of Casterly Rock? Tyrion or Ser Kevan?**

 **I'm looking forward to posting the next and last chapter of Part 3 (with the Part 3 appendix of course) on Saturday night (Australian time).**

 **On another matter, I've been thinking and reflecting upon the reviews saying northerners are proud and how the Starks are too southron now. I reckon the southron alliances (or in general the alliances with other Great Houses) started a little before the Harrenhal tourney in ASOIAF and it would be alright if it was just like one match, but for all the noble lords in the North and south, they wouldn't be very happy with their liege lords' families marrying into noble families from other regions. They probably feel offended. Like if none of Mace Tyrell's children marry ladies from the Reach, the noble houses of the Reach might start grumbling.**

 **I just thought to share my thoughts :D**


	92. The King Across the Water

The golden orb in the sky was setting when the young king stood on the stone balcony and stared at the calming waters of the bay. The square brick towers of Pentos were black silhouettes melting against the setting sun. As he looked at the waters wistfully, Aegon listened to the chants of the red priests. He imagined that as they sung, they stood in circles around their pyres and lit their fires as they do from sunrise to sunset. Once he found their singing ominous and disturbing; now they were slightly soothing like the constant singing of cicadas during summer.

Almost dreamily, Aegon reached out as if he wanted to grab the setting sun or the cluster of pink-orange clouds around it. _Westeros_. The land of green hills, and flowered plains and great rushing rivers. The place Pentoshi, Braavosi and others of the Free Cities called the Sunset Kingdoms. Even the nomadic Dothraki have a name for the beautiful terrain across the Narrow Sea – _Rhaesh Andahli_ , the lands of the Andals. Aegon had another word for Westeros.

Home.

It was strange as Aegon had never set foot on Westerosi soil before. All his life, Aegon lived in Pentos, specifically in Magister Illyrio Mopatis's vast manse. When he remained within the twelve feet high brick walls adorned with iron spikes, he was Aegon. When he wandered the streets of Pentos in the company of loyal men, he was Young Griff, a young man with dyed blue hair. Even in Pentos it wasn't all safe for Aegon to dwell under his true identity. It was true, that there were many in the Free Cities who bore Valyrian features, but how many with violet eyes and a mop of silver hair?

 _What is it like?_ Aegon wondered, _living in Westeros? Is it like Pentos?_ Perhaps it was similar – with the exception of slaves of course. His appointed guardian Lord Jon Connington, the former Lord of Griffin's Roost, had told him Westeros had no slaves. Then again slavery was outlawed in Pentos, but Magister Illyrio's servants were practically slaves in all but name. Aegon's thoughts turned to his household which consisted of Lord Jon Connington, Septa Lemore, his tutor Haldon and Ser Rolly Duckfield, a Westerosi exile who trained Aegon in skills at arms. According to the magister, all those men and the septa were Targaryen loyalists.

"You have friends waiting for you at Westeros," Magister Illyrio had told him a number of times. "The Martells, the Tyrells, the Darrys, Rygers, and Mootons, and many more! The smallfolk cry for you too, my king. Men lift secret toasts for your health, pledging their swords and spears to you, and women sew dragon banners and hide them against the day of your return from across the water."

Aegon highly doubted that the last fact was true. When he had asked Lord Jon about it, Lord Jon had snorted. "Smallfolk don't care who is king," the Connington lord had said bluntly. "All they wish for is sun and rain. It's the lords who care. It is true that you have friends, Your Grace. Friends that have been working for the Targaryen restoration since your arrival in this manse. Amongst them, I believe it to be the Martells that are our strongest allies."

The Martells – Aegon's mother's family.

"Is something on your mind my Your Grace?" Lord Connington appeared near the door of the balcony. "You have been standing there for some time."

Aegon turned and looked at his late father's dearest friend. Forty years old, he – Jon Connington – was tall and had a clean shaven face, lined and leathery. Lord Connington's once fiery red hair was now grey and his blue eyes which carried a great deal of sorrow and regret, were pale and tired. Aegon loved that man as his surrogate father, but at times wished he wouldn't stare straight at him with pity in his eyes or worse, sadness. _I'm not my father!_ Aegon wanted to shout. _As much as I look like him, I am not him! I won't be him either!_ He would never abandon his future wife for a pretty face like his late father did.

"Only thinking, Lord Connington," Aegon responded. "We have stayed here for nineteen years. I'm no longer a child, my lord. I'm only wondering when the time is ripe to return to Westeros." It was strange, saying _returning_ to Westeros. "Why would Magister Illyrio agree to house us here as his guests for so long? He'd said that he even contracted two sellsword companies for me too. Why do you believe he would do that, my lord Connington? He is not a relative of mine."

"No he is not," Lord Connington agreed, "but he is an um, ally."

"How did you win him over, Lord Connington?"

"I didn't, Your Grace. It was the Spider who asked him to help you. I heard that the Spider and Magister Illyrio are good friends."

"I see. Why would the Spider assist me?"

"I told you once before my king, that the Spider deplores the violence that the Usurper relished in during the Sack of King's Landing. Your lady mother and dear sister Your Grace, both murdered. You would have been too if the Spider had not smuggled you out."

"Lannisters murdered my mother and sister, not the Usurper."

"He didn't condone Lord Tywin's actions my king. He applauded them. I heard that even now, the Usurper hates your late father."

"And he always will." Aegon had heard that tale many times. "Autumn will not stay forever – unless we plan to stay here for a long winter, we should prepare. I have no desire to fight during winter and die of a chill. Either I'll die in battle or I will die of old age with the Targaryen banners flying in King's Landing once again. I will not die in winter at Westeros due to a _chill_."

"The day has been selected already my king," Lord Connington promised. "It'll not be long now." He looked uncomfortable. Aegon raised an eyebrow. "Is there a matter I should know, my lord?" he inquired.

"One of the Red Viper's bastards arrived this morning," Lord Connington then said almost reluctantly. "She was talking with Magister Illyrio. If it was a relevant and important matter, Magister Illyrio would travel to Westeros himself or we'd have one of the Spider's regular little birds here. Something must have happened in Westeros. Something significant."

"Perhaps the Usurper has died?" suggested Aegon hopefully.

Lord Connington shook his head. "Better the Usurper is alive when we land."

"Easier to gain more allies?"

"Indeed Your Grace. With the Usurper alive when you land, lords who despise the Usurper will clamour to you. If he dies, his eldest son will be king. Every lord in the Seven Kingdoms would rather take a chance with a young man on the Iron Throne rather than with a Targaryen."

"Even the Martells and Tyrells?"

"The Tyrells yes, the Martells no. The Martells are your family, my king, and all of the Tyrells are ambitious. Targaryen loyalists yes, but with a young king on the throne, they will try and claw their influence on him. It will be tricky for them as I heard the prince is married and more like the grim Lord Stannis than his father – he will not go around sleeping with other women so easily."

Aegon nodded. "My wife-to-be is a Tyrell. The Lady Margaery." He recalled the exquisite rose gold locket he received, which contained a miniature painting drawn in Myrish style, of Lady Margaery Tyrell, a pretty girl with doe's eyes and a cascade of soft brown hair. Obviously Aegon had never met the girl – now Renly Baratheon's wife – but he had heard many words about her. Magister Illyrio Mopatis had called her 'The true rose of Highgarden'; Uncle Oberyn described her as a rose with thorns. Very sharp and pointy thorns. Then again, Martells would never describe Tyrells in an approving light, allies or no.

"A Baratheon widow," stated Lord Connington disapprovingly. "You should be marrying a true maiden Your Grace, not a virgin widow."

"We need the Tyrells," said Aegon shortly. "My Martell relatives alone can't aid us in a Targaryen restoration. Besides, all the other Great Houses are loyal to the bone to the Usurper. Magister Illyrio assured me that when I wed Lady Margaery, she will still be a maiden. Apparently her husband prefers to spend both his days and nights with her brother the Knight of Flowers rather than her."

"Convenient."

Aegon nodded. Convenient indeed.

"Your Grace." One of the magister's slaves appeared. She curtsied and her eyes cast down, said, "Milord Magister asks if you and milord here wish to dine in the Great Hall. Milord Magister has a guest from Westeros and wonders if you are at all interested to speak to her."

Magister Illyrio's guest must be one of the Sand Snakes. "We will dine with my lord Magister tonight," said Aegon promptly. He was eager to hear what news his illegitimate Dornish cousin carried with her. Hopefully it was excellent news, but he knew by now that it was better to expect the worst.

* * *

"The spiced duck is well-cooked my lord Magister." Lady Nym speared herself another slice of spiced duck. "It tastes almost Dornish. Very spicy."

The morbidly obese Maester Illyrio beamed. "I have the best Pentoshi cooks in my service my lady." Draining the rest of his wine in one gulp, he began to stroke the prongs of his oiled forked yellow beard. Aegon hated when he did that. It had always looked…obscene. "It was a surprise seeing you this morning," he went on, his eyes fixed on the Sand Snake. "You told me the most ah, fascinating of news – were you sent here by our mutual friend Lord Varys?" Aegon abandoned his own piece of spiced duck and looked at Lady Nymeria Sand expectedly. The Lady Nym Sand's full lips curved into a smile. She was slim and slender as a willow, with her straight black hair tied into a simple, long braid. She had dark eyes like Oberyn's, and was olive-skinned like all of the Martells.

"I bring significant news from Westeros my lord Magister," Lady Nym replied, before looking at Aegon. She dipped her head. "Your Grace. I was not sent here by just Lord Varys. My cousin Princess Arianne had also sent me here."

"Arianne?" Aegon couldn't help but sound surprised. "Why?"

"Prince Doran is dead."

Aegon stared at Lady Nym. Their uncle…dead? "He died quite suddenly," Lady Nym continued, "but peacefully in his sleep. Arianne is now the Princess of Dorne and Lady of Sunspear. She sent me here immediately to assure you Dorne will be behind you even with Prince Doran's death. She has pledged ten thousand spears to your cause Your Grace."

"Thank you," said Aegon, his throat dry. Prince Doran…dead? It seemed a cruel trick. He did not remember meeting Prince Doran, but it was him who concocted the restoration plan with the Spider and the Queen of Thorns. It was he who held onto the belief that the dragons would rule over the Seven Kingdoms once again, and he believed Aegon to be his true nephew. "I will not forget him," Aegon went on quietly. "Prince Doran had done so much for the Targaryen cause."

Lady Nym Sand nodded. "I never knew about his plot," she said stiffly. "I knew naught about it until Arianne told me. Apparently my father also knew about it. I find it difficult to believe the late Prince Doran a conspirator, but it seems he was and not a weak man many of Dorne thought he was."

"How are our Martell cousins, Lady Nym?"

"Well. Arianne is making a progress in Dorne to show the Dornish people that she has no intention of hiding away in the Water Gardens. Quentyn's well too. He is now married I believe, to Lady Gwyneth Yronwood. Trystane is ah, Trystane. I do not know what he does all day. Probably reading, sparring, learning."

"I heard Prince Doran had a Stark girl as his ward. Will she marry Trystane?"

"By the gods no. You have not heard the news? Lord Stark had requested Lady Gwenysse return to Winterfell. Apparently what Robb Stark had done was awful enough to ask for the return of his sister. Word is that Dornishmen are no longer particularly welcomed in the North." Lady Nym sipped her wine. "Then again, no Dornishmen were ever welcome in the North. I wonder if Lady Stark is courageous enough to return to Winterfell."

"She is Lady of Winterfell."

"And pretending to be your aunt Princess Daenerys's Dornish aunt. I must say, it was a clever plan to protect the last Targaryen princess, but thanks to her son's foolish actions, Ashara Stark is now viewed by most of the Seven Kingdoms as an evil, scheming Dornishwoman who plotted to have her bastard niece enchant her own son to be the next Lady of Winterfell. Not only does that further ruin the not particularly kind reputation of Dornish bastard women as it is, but it also wrecks Princess Daenerys's repute too."

Aegon darkened. He was aware of his royal aunt – his _last_ surviving Targaryen relative – Princess Daenerys masquerading as a bastard at Winterfell for her own safety, but wished the Spider had smuggled her to Pentos too. If he had, he would know her well, perhaps feel like a brother to her more than a nephew; now she'd be presented to him as a stranger. It was not a pleasant thought. Moreover, if the Princess Daenerys was here at Pentos at his side, he'd still have quite a treasured and valuable bargaining chip to use to either reward a loyal ally or win a new ally in the Targaryen restoration. Now thanks to the Starks, Daenerys knew herself as Daenerys Sand and was now married. "My aunt's reputation will not be ruined in the slightest," said Aegon stiffly. "When I take the Iron Throne, as is my right, one of my first duties is to ensure Princess Daenerys's name is cleared from all of that scandal. At least when Westeros realises their Daenerys Sand is in truth Princess Daenerys Targaryen, Stark loyalty will be assured."

Lady Nym smiled almost cynically. "Do you know she is with child?"

Aegon shrugged. Princess Daenerys was bearing pups, not dragons. "That isn't much of a surprise," he remarked. "The Starks are always fertile and young Robb Stark did marry my aunt quite quickly according to my lord Magister here. I'd say they married swiftly to ensure their child is born legitimate."

"You are not angry you will not wed your lady aunt, my king?"

"You know I have no desire to marry Princess Daenerys. I'm aware that quite a lot of my ancestors believed in blood purity and all that, but what did that gain us in the Usurper's war? Not many allies. I have no intention of wedding Daenerys – I am to marry Lady Margaery Tyrell after all. I will also ensure my descendants to wed nobles as is right, not their brothers and sisters."

"Speaking of allies, Your Grace, you might gain another one."

"My lady?" Lord Connington frowned. "Another ally? Do not jest."

Lady Nym's dark eyes swivelled to him. "You believe I journeyed all the way to Pentos to jest, my lord Connington? If you do, you are wrong. The Spider is doing what he can to secure His Grace another ally for the Targaryen restoration."

"Impossible," Lord Connington declared. "Unless the Spider managed to bribe all the minor noble houses to the Targaryen cause, I do not believe you my lady. I doubt you won an alliance with House Greyjoy either."

"The Spider did not waste time trying to bribe House Greyjoy. Are you and His Grace aware that Stannis Baratheon arrested his own wife?"

Aegon nodded as his Dornish cousin glanced at him. "A great scandal," he said, remembering Lord Connington and Magister Illyrio talking about it for days. "it's quite shocking too. The great Lord Tywin's own twins committing incest. Did the Old Lion of Casterly Rock disown his golden twins? I heard he wouldn't leave his chambers after his son was sent to the Wall, his daughter to the silent sisters and two of his grandchildren to Oldtown."

"A light punishment," Magister Illyrio spoke. "Lord Stark's influence I believe."

Lady Nym waved her hand impatiently. "That's not important. Lord Tywin's in no position to disown anyone."

"Why?" asked Aegon curiously. He despised Tywin Lannister – it was his order that murdered his lady mother and Rhaenys. If it wasn't for him, he'd still have a mother and sister.

"He is dead. Lord Tywin is _dead_."

* * *

The yellow flame flickered, dangerously low to its stump of a candlestick. As if in a trance, Aegon watched. Tywin Lannister…dead. Not of assassination; not in a battle either. Of shock though! The shock of Lady Cersei's walk of atonement and his golden legacy crumbling to dust. Aegon had dreamt of the day old Lord Tywin would see him sitting on the Iron Throne. First astonishment, then possibly a tint of anger and wonder. Now…Tywin Lannister was dead. He had not been the only one though. According to Lady Nym, Grand Maester Pycelle gave Lady Cersei and her children vials of sleeping draught before they left the Red Keep. It turned out that in truth, they were phials of sweetsleep. As part of his education, Aegon was taught a little about what maesters used to treat the wounded and sick. "A couple of grains will slow a pounding heart," Haldon had informed him, "as well as stop a hand from shaking, and making a man feel calm and strong. A pinch will grant a night of deep and dreamless sleep. Three pinches though, my king, will produce a sleep that does not end." It seemed Grand Maester Pycelle had overestimated the number of pinches he had put in the vials.

"They are dead," Aegon said aloud. "Tywin, Cersei, Myrcella and Tommen." It'd been hard to believe the Old Lion of Casterly Rock was finally dead. _Sadly, he had died without the knowledge that his dog Clegane failed in murdering me_. His uncle Oberyn wouldn't be happy. He had held onto vengeance for so long and for Lord Tywin Lannister to slip through his fingers…

It would be infuriating to a man like the Red Viper.

For the majority of his life, Aegon considered himself a patient man – not quite as patient as the late Prince Doran, but patient enough. However, after Lady Nym told him that the day of his landing was changed, he tasted impatience. How long was he to remain in Pentos? Every day away from Westeros was another bloody day in the usurper Robert Baratheon's favour. Aegon huffed. Seven months more in Pentos and all because a hysterical woman refused to allow her daughter to be wedded to her betrothed until the betrothed's whore births his bastard and both of them sent away. Unbelievable. By the Seven, winter would probably reach the Seven Kingdoms before he does.

Still staring at the flickering flame, Aegon allowed his mind to meander to the dream of returning to Westeros. He would be a merciful ruler; a benevolent king. When the Iron Throne was his, he would forgive all the lords who sided with the Usurper, even the Starks, Tullys and Arryns. They were only following the orders of their false king as loyal men would. However, they would have to send a child or a sibling each to King's Landing for a year as a token of good faith of course – it was only fair. The Usurper would die (hopefully in battle if it came to it) and both his sons sent to the Wall. Lady Lyarra Stark would remain at King's Landing until it was determined she was not carrying a Baratheon child and then sent home to Winterfell where she would probably be wedded off to a northern lord. What's to be done about the Usurper's daughters though? Aegon frowned. The younger girl could be sent to the motherhouse, but the elder was betrothed to Willas Tyrell. A rather unfortunate situation. Willas was to marry Cousin Arianne after all, but as she was now Princess of Dorne in her own right, she could not possibly wed Lord Tyrell's eldest son and heir.

Shaking those thoughts away, Aegon rose from his cushioned chair, his arms a little sore from being folded against his chest for hours. He quietly walked across his lavishly decorated chamber to the balcony. It was almost sunrise and he liked watching the sun slowly ascend to its golden throne.

 _By the Seven I will be patient a little longer_ , Aegon vowed, standing still on the stone balcony as a cold, bitter wind swooped upon him like a vicious bird of prey spotting his morning meal. The Martells craved vengeance and would stand with him even if he was forced to wait in Pentos for another long year and the Tyrells, guided by their ambitions, were always more loyal to the dragons than the stags. Yes, it was best to try and be patient. What was one more year to him when he'd already waited for nineteen?

"I _will_ sit on the Iron Throne as my ancestors had done," Aegon Targaryen said to himself, his violet eyes ablaze with passion. "It may not be today, tomorrow, in a few weeks or even a few months, but I _will_ sit on the Iron Throne…one day."

* * *

 **That marks the end of Part 3! I really enjoyed writing this chapter and I hope you guys enjoyed reading it :) As you know, I'll be uploading the Part 3 appendix shortly.**


	93. Appendix III

**I've uploaded the last chapter of Part 3 in case you are unaware.**

* * *

HOUSE BARATHEON OF KING'S LANDING

KING ROBERT BARATHEON, the First of His Name,

· His wife, QUEEN CATELYN, of House Tully,

· Their children:

o PRINCESS LYANNA, a maiden of sixteen, betrothed to Willas Tyrell,

o PRINCE ORYS, heir to the Iron Throne,

Ø His wife, PRINCESS LYARRA, of House Stark,

o PRINCE ORMUND, a boy of eleven,

o PRINCESS MINISA, a girl of seven,

· His brothers:

o STANNIS BARATHEON, Lord of Storm's End and Hand of the King,

o RENLY BARATHEON, Lord of Dragonstone,

· His bastard children:

o EDRIC STORM, his acknowledged bastard son by Lady Delena of House Florent, a young man of fourteen,

o GENDRY WATERS, his acknowledged bastard son, a young man of seventeen,

o Numerous others, including the girl at the Vale,

· His small council:

o GRAND MAESTER PYCELLE,

o LORD STANNIS BARATHEON, Hand of the King,

o LORD EDDARD STARK, Master of Laws,

o LORD PAXTER REDWYNE, Master of Ships,

o SER KEVAN LANNISTER, Master of Coin,

o SER BARRISTAN SELMY, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,

o VARYS, a eunuch, called the Spider, Master of Whisperers,

· His Kingsguard:

o SER BARRISTAN SELMY, called Barristan the Bold, Lord Commander,

o SER BRYNDEN TULLY, called the Blackfish,

o SER LYLE CRAKEHALL, called the Strongboar,

o SER GARTH HIGHTOWER, called Garth Greysteel,

o SER ARYS OAKHEART,

o SER BALON SWANN.

Principal houses sworn to the Iron Throne are Blount, Buckwell, Chelsted, Hayford, Rosby, Rykker, Stokeworth and Thorne.

* * *

HOUSE BARATHEON OF STORM'S END

STANNIS BARATHEON, Lord of Storm's End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Hand of the King,

· His former wife, {LADY CERSEI, of House Lannister}, died by overdosing herself with the drug sweetsleep,

· Their children:

o SHIREEN, a maiden of fourteen,

o STEFFON, heir to Storm's End, betrothed to Lady Alyssa Arryn, a twin to Cassana, twelve,

o CASSANA, a twin to Steffon, twelve,

o ROBERT, a boy of ten,

· His wards:

o ROBERT ARRYN, Lord of the Eyrie, a boy of nine,

o ALYSSA ARRYN, a girl of seven.

Principal houses sworn to Storm's End are Selmy, Wylde, Trant, Seaworth, Penrose, Errol, Estermont, Tarth, Swann, Dondarrion and Caron.

* * *

HOUSE BARATHEON OF DRAGONSTONE

RENLY BARATHEON, Lord of Dragonstone,

· His wife, LADY MARGAERY, of House Tyrell, currently childless,

Principal houses sworn to Dragonstone are Celtigar, Velaryon, Bar Emmon and Sunglass.

* * *

HOUSE ARRYN

ROBERT ARRYN, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East,

· His widowed mother, LADY LYSA, of House Tully,

· His sisters:

o SANSA, betrothed to Ser Harrold Hardyng, thirteen,

o ALYSSA, betrothed to Steffon Baratheon, seven.

Principal houses sworn to the Eyrie are Royce, Baelish, Egen, Waynwood, Hunter, Redfort, Corbray, Belmore and Hersy.

* * *

HOUSE GREYJOY

BALON GREYJOY, Lord of the Iron Islands, Son of the Sea Wind, the Greyjoy and Lord Reaper of Pyke,

· His wife, LADY ALANNYS, of House Harlaw,

· Their children:

o {RODRIK}, their eldest son, died in the Greyjoy Rebellion,

Ø His widow, LADY GWYNETH, of House Goodbrother,

o {MARON}, their second son, died in the Greyjoy Rebellion,

Ø His widow, LADY TARRA, of House Mallister,

o ASHA, their daughter, a woman of twenty three,

o THEON, their youngest son, heir to Pyke, a ward of Eddard Stark, twenty one,

· His brothers:

o EURON, called Crow's Eye, captain of the _Silence_ , an outlaw, pirate and raider,

o VICTARION, Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet,

o AERON, called Damphair, a priest of the Drowned God.

Houses sworn to Pyke include Harlaw, Stonehouse, Merlyn, Sunderly, Botley, Tawney, Wynch and Goodbrother.

* * *

HOUSE KARSTARK

RICKARD KARSTARK, Lord of Karhold,

· His wife, {LADY PERELLE, of House Tallhart}, died in childbed,

· Their children:

o HARRION, their eldest son, heir to Karhold,

Ø His wife, LADY JOCELYN, of House Umber,

Ø Their son, EDWYLE, a newborn infant,

o TORRHEN, their second son, twenty one,

o EDDARD, their youngest son, nineteen, betrothed to Lady Lyra Mormont,

o ALYS, their daughter, a maid of sixteen, betrothed to Daryn Hornwood, a guest at Winterfell.

* * *

HOUSE LANNISTER

{TYWIN LANNISTER}, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West and Shield of Lannisport,

· His wife, {LADY JOANNA}, a cousin, died in childbed,

· Their children:

o SER JAIME, called the Kingslayer, a twin to Cersei,

o {CERSEI}, former wife to Lord Stannis Baratheon, a twin to Jaime, died by overdosing herself with the drug sweetsleep,

Ø Her children born from an incestuous relationship with Ser Jaime:

à {MYRCELLA}, a girl of seven, died from an overdose in sweetsleep,

à {TOMMEN}, a boy of five, died from an overdose in sweetsleep,

o TYRION, a dwarf, twenty eight,

· His siblings:

o SER KEVAN, his eldest brother,

Ø His wife, DORNA, of House Swyft,

à Their eldest son, SER LANCEL, a young man of eighteen,

à Their twin sons, WILLEM and MARTYN, sixteen,

à Their only daughter, JANEI, five,

o GENNA, his sister, wed to Ser Emmon Frey,

Ø Their son, SER CLEOS FREY, seventeen,

Ø Their son, TION FREY, a squire,

o {SER TYGETT}, his second brother, died of pox,

Ø His widow, DARLESSA, of House Marbrand,

à Their son, TYREK, a young man of eighteen,

o {SER GERION}, lost at sea,

Ø His widow, SELYSE, of House Florent,

Ø His bastard daughter, JOY, a maiden of fourteen,

· Their cousin, SER STAFFORD LANNISTER, brother to the late Lady Joanna,

o His daughters, CERENNA, twenty three, and MYRIELLE, nineteen,

o His son, DAVEN LANNISTER.

Principal houses sworn to Casterly Rock are Payne, Swyft, Marbrand, Lydden, Banefort, Lefford, Crakehall, Serrett, Broom, Clegane, Prester and Westerling.

* * *

HOUSE MARTELL

{DORAN NYMEROS MARTELL}, Lord of Sunspear and Prince of Dorne,

· His wife, MELLARIO, of the Free City of Norvos,

· Their children:

o PRINCESS ARIANNE, their eldest daughter, the new Lady of Sunspear and Princess of Dorne, twenty five,

o PRINCE QUENTYN, their elder son, twenty,

Ø His wife, LADY GWYNETH, of House Yronwood,

o PRINCE TRYSTANE, their youngest son, fourteen,

· His siblings:

o His sister, {PRINCESS ELIA}, wed to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, slain during the Sack of King's Landing,

Ø {PRINCESS RHAENYS}, a young girl, slain during the Sack of King's Landing,

Ø {PRINCE AEGON}, a babe, apparently slain during the Sack of King's Landing,

o His brother, PRINCE OBERYN, the Red Viper,

Ø His paramour, ELLARIA SAND,

Ø His bastard daughters, the SAND SNAKES:

à OBARA, his daughter by an Oldtown whore, thirty,

à NYMERIA, called LADY NYM, his daughter by a noblewoman of Old Volantis, twenty seven,

à TYENE, his daughter by a septa, twenty five,

à SARELLA, his daughter by a trader captain from the Summer Isles, twenty one,

à ELIA, his daughter by Ellaria Sand, sixteen,

à OBELLA, his daughter by Ellaria Sand, fourteen,

à DOREA, his daughter by Ellaria Sand, ten,

à LOREZA, his daughter by Ellaria Sand, eight,

Ø His squire, PERROS BLACKMONT, sixteen,

· Their cousin, SER MORS MARTELL,

o His wife, KIARRA, of the Free City of Tyrosh,

Ø Their daughter, MATYSSE, wed to Lord Edric Dayne.

o His brother, SER MANFREY MARTELL, the castellan of Sunspear.

Principal houses sworn to Dorne are Allyrion, Blackmont, Dalt, Dayne, Fowler, Gargalen, Jordayne, Manwoody, Qorgyle, Santagar, Toland, Uller, Vaith, Wyl and Yronwood.

* * *

HOUSE MORMONT

MAEGE MORMONT, Lady of Bear Island,

· Her children:

o DACEY, her eldest daughter, heir to Bear Island, twenty,

o ALYSANE, her second daughter, eighteen,

Ø Her daughter EIRLYS SNOW, a girl of three,

Ø Her son RODRIK SNOW, a boy of one,

o LYRA, her third daughter, fifteen, betrothed to Eddard Karstark,

o JORELLE, her fourth daughter, thirteen,

o LYANNA, her youngest daughter, eleven, a guest at Winterfell.

· Her brother, {JEOR MORMONT}, 997th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and formerly Lord of Bear Island,

o His son, SER JORAH, formerly Lord of Bear Island, exiled in Essos,

Ø His first wife, {LADY ILENA, of House Glover}, died after her third miscarriage in their tenth year of marriage,

Ø His second wife, LADY LYNESSE, of House Hightower.

* * *

HOUSE RYSWELL

{RODRICK RYSWELL}, Lord of the Rills,

· His wife, {LADY RYENE, of House Glover}, died of a winter fever,

· Their children:

o {BETHANY}, their elder daughter, wed to Lord Roose Bolton, died of a fever,

Ø Their son, DOMERIC, the heir to the Dreadfort, a ward of Eddard Stark, betrothed to Lady Arrana Umber,

o BARBREY, their younger daughter, widow of Lord Willam Dustin,

o ROGER, their eldest son, the new Lord of the Rills,

o RICKARD, their second son,

o ROOSE, their youngest son.

* * *

HOUSE STARK

EDDARD STARK, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North and Master of Laws,

· His wife, LADY ASHARA, of House Dayne,

· Their children:

o ROBB, the heir to Winterfell, a young man of seventeen,

Ø His wife, DAENERYS SAND, with child,

o LYARRA, their eldest daughter, wed to Prince Orys Baratheon,

o ARYA, their second daughter, a girl of twelve,

o BRANDON, their second son, a boy of eleven,

o GWENYSSE, their youngest daughter, a girl of eight,

o ARTHUR, their third son, a boy of six,

o RICKON, their youngest son, a boy of three.

· His bastard son, JON SNOW, a young man of eighteen, in truth the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen,

· His wards and guests:

o DAENERYS SAND, actually Daenerys Targaryen, wed to Robb Stark,

o DOMERIC BOLTON, heir to the Dreadfort, a man of twenty, betrothed to Lady Arrana Umber,

o THEON GREYJOY, heir to Pyke, twenty one,

o JOJEN REED, heir to Greywater Watch, a young man of fifteen,

o MEERA REED, Jojen's elder sister, a maid of eighteen,

o ALYS KARSTARK, a maid of sixteen,

o LYANNA MORMONT, a girl of eleven,

· His siblings:

o {BRANDON}, his elder brother, murdered by the command of Aerys II Targaryen,

o {LYANNA}. His younger sister, mother of Jon Snow, died in the mountains of Dorne,

o BENJEN, his younger brother, First Ranger of the Night's Watch.

Principal houses sworn to Winterfell are Karstark, Umber, Flint, Mormont, Hornwood, Cerwyn, Reed, Manderly, Glover, Tallhart and Bolton.

* * *

HOUSE TULLY

EDMURE TULLY, Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Trident,

· His wife, LADY LEYLA, of House Hightower,

· Their children:

o HOSTER, the heir to Riverrun, fourteen, squire to Lord Tytos Blackwood,

o MELIA, their eldest daughter, a maid of thirteen,

o ROSALINE, their second daughter, a girl of eleven,

o BRYNDON, their second son, a boy of nine,

o AXEL, their youngest son, a boy of seven,

o ELIANOR, their youngest daughter, a girl of six.

· His sisters:

o QUEEN CATELYN, wed to King Robert Baratheon,

o LYSA, widow of Lord Jon Arryn,

· His uncle, SER BRYNDEN, called the Blackfish.

Houses sworn to Riverrun include Darry, Frey, Mallister, Bracken, Blackwood, Whent, Ryger, Piper and Vance.

* * *

HOUSE TYRELL

MACE TYRELL, Lord of Highgarden, Warden of the South, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach,

· His wife, LADY ALERIE, of House Hightower of Oldtown,

· Their children:

o WILLAS, their eldest son, heir to Highgarden, a man of twenty five, betrothed to Princess Lyanna Baratheon,

o SER GARLAN, their second son, a man of twenty four,

Ø His wife, Lady Leonette, of House Fossoway,

o SER LORAS, called the Knight of Flowers, their youngest son, a young man of nineteen,

o MARGAERY, their daughter, wed to Lord Renly Baratheon,

· His widowed mother, LADY OLENNA, of House Redwyne, called the Queen of Thorns,

· His sisters:

o MINA, wed to Lord Paxter Redwyne,

Ø Their twin sons, HORAS and HOBBER, twenty,

Ø Their daughter DESMERA, a maid of eighteen,

o JANNA, wed to Ser Jon Fossoway,

· His uncles:

o GARTH, called the Gross, Lord Seneschal of Highgarden,

Ø His bastard sons, GARSE and GARRETT FLOWERS,

o SER MORYN, Lord Commander of the City Watch of Oldtown,

o MAESTER GORMON, a scholar of the Citadel.

Principal houses sworn to Highgarden are Vyrwel, Florent, Oakheart, Hightower, Crane, Tarly, Redwyne, Rowan, Fossoway and Mullendore.

* * *

HOUSE UMBER

JON UMBER, called Greatjon, Lord of the Last Hearth,

· His wife, LADY CARYSE, of House Flint,

· Their children:

o JON, called Smalljon, their eldest son, heir to the Last Hearth,

Ø His wife, LADY MARIAH, of House Wull,

à JON, called Littlejon, their elder son, a boy of seven,

à CALLA, their elder daughter, a girl of five,

à SARRA, their younger daughter, a girl of three,

à ULRIK, their younger son, a boy of one.

o {OSWIN}, their second son, slain by Ygritte,

Ø His widow, LADY JONNA, of House Norrey,

o HARLON, their third son,

o JOCELYN, their elder daughter, wed to Harrion Karstark,

o {ROBBARD}, their fourth son, killed by one of Lord Karstark's archers,

Ø His wildling widow, YGRITTE,

o ARRANA, their younger daughter, a maid of seventeen, betrothed to Domeric Bolton,

o LONNEL, their youngest son, a boy of twelve,

· His brothers:

o OSRIC, called Osric One-Eyed,

o {ARTOS}, slain in a wildling attack.

* * *

 **Thank you so much for reading this story up to now! I really appreciate it! :) I'll try and upload the first chapter of the final part of 'The Dance of Spring' next week.**


	94. Domeric

For the last eight months, the heir to the Dreadfort moped. If he was not in the training yard sparring with Theon or teaching Jojen, he was in the library reading or in his chambers brooding.

Domeric had never brooded as much before. Then again, he felt no need to. He had a glittering future, his betrothed was no stranger and he had foster brothers. Now his future seemed bleak, his betrothed _was_ a stranger and he felt alone in all the corridors and rooms of Winterfell. Domeric had expected to be summoned to the Dreadfort seven months earlier, but his father hadn't sent for him. He had not sent any letters either. That was more alarming as Father would usually send one or two letters a week.

"Domeric." Domeric looked at his chamber door. Maester Luwin was shuffling in. "Maester," Domeric greeted. He stood up and offered the maester a chair. "You should have sent for me."

"It is good exercise," responded Maester Luwin, gratefully taking a seat.

"I see."

"I received a letter from your father, Domeric. He desires for you to ride to the Dreadfort. Apparently your future wife has finally arrived."

"Oh. I thought Lady Arrana was to arrive at the Dreadfort months ago? Did her father change his mind briefly on the match?"

" I am afraid I do not know, Domeric. Whatever had hindered your marriage to the Lady Arrana Umber for a number of months was between your father and the Lady Arrana's father. Perhaps with the wildling war it is dangerous for a lady like her to set out for the Dreadfort until now. According to the letters, wildlings have attacked Last Hearth and with Lord Umber here, his brothers and sons must be a tad bit more occupied than usual. Whatever the case, Lady Arrana has arrived at the Dreadfort now and you will soon be a married man."

Domeric nodded expressionlessly. "I will have my bags ready on the morrow. I don't require a farewell feast. I will probably visit Winterfell from time to time on behalf of my lord father. Winterfell is my second home after all."

"We will be happy to see you here again Domeric." Maester Luwin hesitated. "I do not mean to question your lord father's orders Domeric, but I didn't recognise his handwriting. Oh I did see the seal, but his handwriting…" He handed the piece of parchment to Domeric. "Perhaps you recognise it?" Domeric glanced at it. "It's written by Maester Tybald," he said shortly. Odd. _My father always writes his own letters to me,_ he thought as Maester Luwin began to speak again. _He doesn't really like Maester Tybald but considers him useful. However, he still would never dictate a letter and ask Maester Tybald to write it. Father would write his own letters and send them himself…unless his right hand's injured in some way._ Yes, that explained it. How did he injure himself though?

"…and I will ensure you have enough food and drink for the journey," Maester Luwin was saying. "Will you ride to the Dreadfort alone?"

"Yes Maester," Domeric answered. "I know the way and I do not think that I'll be harmed on my father's lands."

"Will you bid farewell to Robb at least?"

Domeric paused. For eight months, he had not spoken to Robb Stark. How he'd managed to do so was a miracle. He'd talked to both Arthur and Rickon and even Lady Gwenysse who arrived two months ago; it was only Robb and his lady wife that he did not speak to. Domeric had nothing to say to them; they had nothing to say to him either. "I suppose I will," said Domeric stiffly. "He's my liege lord's heir after all. It will be discourteous if I leave without saying goodbye to him."

"Will you sup with him tonight, Domeric? I couldn't help but notice you hadn't dined with Lord Robb and his family in months."

"I discovered I enjoyed solitude." It was an obvious lie, but Maester Luwin had seemed to accept it without argument. Domeric tapped the stack of books on the table. "I also like reading when I eat."

"Surely you can spare one night in the Great Hall?"

"I will." For your sake, Maester Luwin. The maester had done so much. Taught him, healed him, advised him…he had done so much for him. "Do you think I can borrow these books for a while? I will return it once I finish reading them."

"Of course." Maester Luwin rose. "Maybe one day you and Lord Robb will talk and discuss politics and war strategies in the Great Hall. Mayhaps another pact of peace and uniting Houses." Domeric almost flinched. He was still unwed and the maester was suggesting marriage between Robb and Daenerys's still unborn son or daughter and his firstborn future child. What if the Lady Arrana was unable to birth a child? Highly unlikely as her own mother Lady Caryse Umber bore seven children, Lady Arrana's brother the Smalljon a father of four (currently) and her sister Jocelyn pregnant with her second child within the span of a year.

Shaking his head, Domeric abandoned that thought and slowly walked back to the training yard. It was possibly the last time he would see it. As he watched the Greyjoy heir attempt to teach Jojen a complicated slashing technique, he spotted Lady Gwenysse eyeing the spear Jojen left on the ground. Though she was only a girl of eight, she knew how to wield a spear as well as how Arya brandish a small sword when she was Gwenysse's age. It seemed that Gwenysse's fostering in the Water Gardens at Dorne had guided her towards martial pursuits. Domeric then almost laughed. One wild girl would be enough to any father and mother; what in the old gods' would Lord and Lady Stark say to _two_ warrior girls?

Domeric watched the youngest Stark girl twirl Jojen's abandoned spear in her hands before launching into a sort of Dornish martial dance. She spun, kicked the air and did a stabbing motion with her spear…all while wearing a dress. Abruptly she looked up and her Stark grey eyes met Domeric's. Domeric looked away. She already had Lyarra's long, dark hair. If she had her purple eyes too, he'd have run straight to the Dreadfort even if Father didn't summon him. _Pull yourself together,_ Domeric scolded himself. _Stop thinking about Lyarra. She is happily married and I will be a husband soon too. You moped for eight months. The time for moping is at an end. What will Father say?_ He hurriedly walked away, his lips tightening. He'd be disinherited if he continued acting like this.

Returning to his chambers, Domeric hurriedly packed his bags. There wasn't a lot to pack these days. Clothes, books, weapons and papers…He looked around. It was his last day in this chamber. When he next visited, he'd probably stay in one of the guest chambers. He was no longer Lord Stark's ward after all.

For the rest of the day, Domeric wandered in Winterfell's corridors, smiling as he remembered the good memories. There were bad ones of course, like the time Waymar Royce almost pushed him down the stairs. Everyone had a supply of bad and good memories.

When the time for supper came, Domeric headed to the Great Hall. The Starks were already there, sitting patiently at the dais. So was Daenerys Stark, her hand always caressing her round belly, her eyes sparkling with happiness. A twinge of annoyance touched Domeric. Yes, she was heavy with child. Yes, it was a brilliant sign of her fertility. Yes, it secured the Winterfell succession. Also yes, most of the northern lords are still angry at her and Robb, even with her visibly with child. It was no surprise after all. Domeric smiled at the younger Starks who beamed with joy at him. Though Domeric maintained silence towards Robb, he held no grudge against the other Starks.

"Domeric," said Robb, almost cautiously. "You have not supped with us in um, some time. You know you are always welcome to."

"It is my last night," Domeric said icily. "I am leaving tomorrow at dawn."

Arthur's happy expression melted into a look of horror. "You are _leaving?_ Who will help me train now?"

"There are plenty of people here that can help you," Domeric told him, patting his mop of light brown hair. "Theon, Jojen, Ser Rodrik, Robb…"

"It won't be you." Arthur pouted. "You told me once that we are brothers. Will you come back? You used to go to the Dreadfort with Lyarra and always return a short while later." He brightened up. "It's a brief visit isn't it? You'll be gone for a few weeks and then you'll come back!"

Domeric shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry Arthur. Not this time. Lady Arrana is waiting for me in the Dreadfort and I am long overdue home. When you are older, you are more than welcome to visit me."

Arthur stared at his empty plate. "Everyone goes away," he said forlornly. "Jon, Bran, Lyarra, Arya, Father and Mother…"

"I came back," Gwenysse pointed out.

"As _Lady Gwen_ ," Arthur muttered, not looking at her.

"She is still your sister," said Robb, exasperated. He turned to Domeric. "Don't be a stranger. Come and visit whenever you can." Words of a host to a guest; not the words of a foster brother to another. "I will send you a raven when my son or daughter is born," Robb promised, smiling tentatively. "There will be a ceremony and a feast – I um, I want you here for that. Your father is more than welcomed to come as well. I hope it will lead to peace between our families."

 _Of course it will_ , thought Domeric sarcastically. "Those feasts are to celebrate a birth of a male heir," he said bluntly, "not a girl."

The Great Hall's doors opened and a cluster of ladies walked in, headed by the Lady Lyanna Mormont. With her were Meera Reed and Alys Karstark. The latter Domeric had remembered from social events. Lady Alys was tall and still skinny as a colt. Her face was long and she had a pointy chin. Her brown hair was woven into a long braid and her blue-grey eyes carried naught but worry.

"Jojen has gone to pray in the godswood," Meera informed everyone. "Theon is off to the tavern again."

Robb nodded. "Theon always goes to the tavern nowadays."

"Every child is important." Daenerys had fixed her violet eyes on Domeric. "It doesn't matter if it is a boy or girl." She touched her belly again. "Robb promised that our firstborn will have a grand feast. All the lords will be invited."

Domeric gritted his teeth. She was more intolerable than ever.

"What will you name the baby?" asked Gwenysse.

Daenerys smiled. "If it's a girl, Rhaena. If a boy, Torrhen."

Rhaena? What sort of northern name was that? A couple of northern lords had been unhappy when Lord Stark announced Gwenysse's name at birth. To them, it was too Dornish. When Arthur was born, Greatjon Umber suggested for Lord and Lady Stark to change Arthur's name to Artos, the northern version of his name. It bothered Domeric that Robb would rather follow his lady wife's whims than that of his maester's. Was Rhaena the name of Daenerys's mother? It was common to name one's daughter after one's mother or grandmother, but in this case, it'd be wiser if Robb's future daughter was not named after his or Daenerys's mother. A northern name might even save Robb from further trouble.

It was Lyanna Mormont who frowned. "Rhaena Stark? Do you mean _Raya?_ "

Robb shook his head. "Rhaena is Dany's mother."

Lyanna Mormont's frown deepened. "You intend to name your daughter after a whore who opened her legs to a Dornish lord?"

"Lyanna!" said Domeric, suppressing a smile. "You shouldn't say that."

Lyanna shrugged. "My mother says better the truth than lies. It is the truth is it not? If I have children, I'd never name one after my former good-aunt."

"It's rude to say such words in front of your hosts my lady."

"It's rude to lie too."

Domeric sighed. Arguing with Lady Lyanna Mormont was pointless. She was a girl who was willing to argue all day and night until her point was proven. Theon had made the mistake of quarrelling with her the other day in the training yard – he said her battle stance was wrong when she insisted it was right. Domeric was the unwilling decider. Considering that Lyanna Mormont was holding her spiked mace at the time with a murderous look in her eye, Domeric agreed with her. She wasn't standing incorrectly, but it could use a small adjustment.

"Father and Mother will be back soon," Gwenysse said to Robb. "They have to attend two weddings before they are allowed to come home. Maester Luwin told me that Lyarra is pregnant. Is it true?"

 _Clang._

Everyone's eyes swivelled to Domeric. He hastily bent down and picked up the knife he had dropped. _Lyarra is with child_. Prince Orys's child. He stood up hastily, his right hand shaking. "I must go and pack," he said swiftly. "Early start at dawn. I must also write a letter to Lord Stark, thanking him for everything he'd done for me. I wish you all well for the future." He walked down the dais – only to find the crannogwoman at his side.

"You are leaving?" Meera asked.

Domeric nodded. "My father summoned me home."

"I have a message from Jojen. He says he received another green dream in his sleep and it concerns you."

"Doesn't Jojen's green dreams concern all of us at one stage?" Domeric kept on walking. "Is it important, Lady Meera?"

Meera Reed sped up and stood in front of him, blocking his exit. "Yes," she said flatly. "It's of the utmost importance. If you return to the Dreadfort, not all of you will come back."

* * *

Silence accompanied Domeric from the Hornwood to the Dreadfort. He stayed at the Hornwood for a night where he was reacquainted with the Hornwood heir Daryn, and his lady mother. Throughout the night, Domeric could not remove the words Meera Reed said from his mind. What did she mean when she said that he would return to Winterfell, but not all of him? Would he lose one of his legs or an arm in battle and seek refuge in Winterfell?

As Domeric rode through the soundless woods towards the iron portcullis, his thoughts inadvertently dwelled on Lyarra. Every time his companion was silence or solitude, he would think of her. He tried many times to cease; it never worked. His thoughts would always return to Lyarra Stark. _It's wrong_ , Domeric pondered, waiting for the iron portcullis to raise. _Lyarra is a married woman now – a soon-to-be mother too. I'm a fool to pine after her_. He shivered as the cold breeze chose to nip at the back of his neck. _Life is no song_. "And I have been acting the part of a lovesick fool," Domeric said aloud. The trees rustled in response. "Not anymore," Domeric muttered to himself. He would no longer be a lovesick fool, aching for an impossible woman. No, he was a Bolton of the Dreadfort.

Domeric entered the courtyard. He frowned. There was something…unnatural. Something odd. The Dreadfort was always quiet and eerie, but this…there was an unusual feeling hovering in the atmosphere. His red steed, Crimson, neighed with apprehension and pawed the ground. Domeric dismounted and patted him in an effort to calm him down. Crimson had never done that before…

There was definitely something afoot.

Leading Crimson to the stables, Domeric glanced around. Where were the two stable hands? There was usually one of them tending the horses or cleaning all of the stables when he'd arrive. Besides, it was the middle of the day. Ensuring that there was enough water and some carrots for Crimson, Domeric strode away and headed straight for the doors of the Great Hall.

"My lord Domeric." Maester Tybald was waiting for him. He looked paler and a little nervous even. "I…I didn't expect you here so soon."

Domeric arched an eyebrow. "You wrote the letter didn't you? I believe it was in _your_ handwriting. You wrote to me saying my father wanted me here. Surely it is expected that I'd come here as quickly as I can, especially as I have little reason to remain at Winterfell. Where are the stable hands, Maester? Were they both by chance kicked to death by the horses?"

"N-n-not at all m-my lord," stammered Maester Tybald. "Both are actually ill – a cold I believe. They will be back at work tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow morning. I'd thought you would visit your uncles and aunt, Lord Domeric. I didn't think you'd come straight here. It isn't too late to-"

"I'd like to meet my betrothed," Domeric cut in. "We can talk later if you wish. I do desire to talk to Lady Arrana Umber though. I have not met her before and as I am to marry her, I would like to speak to her, dine with her even before we stand in front of the heart tree in the godswood and wed in the eyes of the old gods. It's not too late now. Where might I find Lady Arrana?"

"A visit to Lord Ryswell is wiser my lord," insisted Maester Tybald. "It is not at all late to leave now."

Domeric's lips tightened. Usually the maester was never this persistent. In fact, he was never unyielding in anything before. The Great Hall's doors opened wider. Maester Tybald seemed to have turned a shade paler as Reek shuffled forward, a smile on his face. "Milord," Reek said, bowing at Domeric. "Lord Bolton is waiting for you in his solar milord. Shall I take you to him?"

"Yes," said Domeric, glancing at Maester Tybald again. "Maester, please tell the Lady Arrana that I will sup with her tonight."

"As you wish my lord." Looking worried, Maester Tybald walked away. With a frown remaining on his face, Domeric followed Reek to the solar.

"When did Lady Arrana arrive?" inquired Domeric.

"A few weeks ago milord Domeric. There were months of delay due to the loss of ravens, miscommunication and the lady's dowry. Also the wildlings of course. I saw Lady Arrana wandering around the castle a number of times milord. She is a beauty milord. A northern beauty."

"My father speaks to you about Lady Arrana's dowry?" Domeric didn't like the sly glimmer in Reek's eyes. Knowing unreliable servants, Reek probably listened at doors and was proud of it. As Domeric expected, Reek didn't reply.

"Lord Bolton is expecting you milord," Reek said again, his wormy, meaty, wet lips forming a cunning smirk. He pushed open the door and gestured for Domeric to enter. Giving him a suspicious look, Domeric cautiously walked in, his hand on the hilt of his dagger. He hoped he would not use his it.

 _Crunch_.

Domeric looked down, his heart pounding twice as fast. He stepped on a hand. His eyes widened. It was his father's pale hand. His grip tightening on the dagger, Domeric moved closer to his father's chair. Domeric paled. Placed on Father's old chair was a flayed body. Upon taking a closer look, Domeric felt ill.

It was Father.

"He tried to strangle me." Reek's voice echoed in the Dreadfort solar. His cold, maniacal laughter rang out loudly. "Can you believe it milord Domeric? He'd tried to strangle me! He was too slow though. I cut off his hand. Cut off his feet too. You know he attempted to call you here so many times, milord? Every time one of his letters was about to be sent out, the raven mysteriously died."

"You…" Domeric shook with rage and horror. "You…you monster!"

His oddly pale eyes shining with delight. "Monster? _Me?_ My dear brother! You have _no_ idea who the true monster is! Me? Oh no, I'm the true Bolton, not you. All the Boltons of old mastered the superb art of flaying. I did too. Can you flay a man who begs for mercy? Do you know how to flay?"

Domeric stared at Reek, speechless. "What?" he managed to say. "Who are you and why did you call me your brother? You are my servant!"

 _Slap!_

"I AM THE TRUE HEIR OF THE DREADFORT!" Reek screeched, slapping at him and kicking him. Almost immediately, Reek calmed down and smiled again. "How silly of me," he said softly, his eyes staring at Domeric's. "You don't know do you? Our father didn't tell you. Our father didn't tell you…" He rubbed his hands as he leant forward. "I'm your half-brother," he whispered into Domeric's ear. "Ramsay. All those days that I played as your servant, I watched you. You're no Bolton. _I_ am. You're weak Domeric. What have you ever done? I flayed our father, strangled all the ravens but one and hunted down that Umber bitch in the forests. That's what a real Bolton would do, not play the harp and weep."

"You're a bastard," said Domeric sharply. "True Bolton or no, I am Lord of the Dreadfort now, not you."

Reek – _Ramsay_ now – leant even closer. Pain shot through Domeric's spine. He cursed as blood slowly seeped out his mouth. That _bastard_.

As Domeric stumbled, his grip on the dagger hilt loosened. He slowly slumped against the wall. Grinding his teeth to suppress the intense agony, he glowered at his cackling half-brother. "Not for long," Domeric heard Ramsay crow wildly and victoriously. "Not for long my dear brother…"

* * *

 **Sorry I didn't upload it earlier! Swamped with assignments. Like SWAMPED. One assignment done, another pops by. I did try to update on Wednesday, but something strange happened - this error message showed up and I didn't receive the email for it. I ended up deleting it so I'm trying again today. I wrote Daenerys deliberately like that this chapter because it is in Domeric's POV and he still isn't in a forgiving mood towards Daenerys or Robb.**


	95. Lyarra V

"You look beautiful in that gown, Princess…"

"…and you _must_ wear that necklace today, Princess. It suits you very well and matches a pretty dress like yours."

"No, no, no. This necklace is better…"

"Why the fuss? They are just necklaces."

Lyarra couldn't help but smile. It was typical of Arya to speak her mind in tiny trivial matters like choosing jewellery. When they were at Winterfell, there were a few rather giggly girls like Jeyne Poole; now at court, there were _many_ girls like Jeyne Poole. Surprisingly though, Jeyne Poole herself was more subdued now she was at court in Lyarra's household.

As Lyarra stared at herself in the mirror, listening to her ladies' bicker about a necklace she should wear, her mind wandered. She was allowed to bring ladies of Northern noble families to court as part of her train, but many of her father's lord bannermen disliked the idea of their daughters and sisters in the south. The only northern ladies that came with Lyarra – apart from Arya – were Jeyne Poole and Lady Wylla Manderly, Lord Manderly's younger daughter. Out of all the northern noble families, House Manderly was regarded the _most_ southron; they follow the the Faith of Seven instead of the old gods and held a strong and more affirmative outlook on knighthood than the other northerners. In fact, to Lyarra's knowledge, the majority of House Manderly's men were knighted.

"I will wear the necklace my father gave me," Lyarra decided, ending the petty matter decisively. "The pearls."

"They are beautiful, Princess," said Lady Ana Massey, sighing with admiration. She watched Lady Wylla carefully take the string of pearls from the rune-carved box and place it around Lyarra's neck. Lyarra smiled at Ana, who was of the same age as her. "You wear a lovely pendant," she complimented. Ana blushed, quickly brushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

"Will it be sewing today, Princess?" inquired Lady Ysilla Royce.

Lyarra nodded. "Winter is approaching and not all of the smallfolk are able to afford warm clothes. I talked to the queen and Princess Lyanna yesterday and we agreed that we must do what we can to help the smallfolk. It is said this winter to come will be the coldest and longest in many decades. We must all do our part to help the poor. The queen, Princess Lyanna and I have decided that until winter is here, we'll all sew as many clothes for the poor as we can and every morning and late afternoon, we will walk the streets of King's Landing giving alms to them. If it helps at all, the queen promised she'll convince the king to issue orders for more alms to be handed out to the poor in the Seven Kingdoms."

"A wise and kind plan Princess," praised Lady Chalysse Hightower, who was a granddaughter of Lord Leyton Hightower and Lord and Lady Tully's niece.

"My sewing is terrible," said Arya flatly. "Can I be excused, Lyarra?"

"Your sewing isn't terrible," said Lyarra truthfully. "It has improved, especially with the queen's help. Besides, it is the thought that counts, is it not? You told me that you wanted to help the smallfolk."

Arya nodded uncertainly.

"You can read aloud with me," offered Rosaline Tully. "I'm certain the princess will like to have us reading aloud when she and the other ladies sew."

"Indeed," agreed Lyarra. "Arya, you can sew later if you prefer to read aloud to us with Lady Rosaline here." Both Arya and Rosaline had a knack for mimicking a recognisable person when reading a passage in a book. Usually Rosaline chooses the books which tended to contain stories about knights and damsels. Arya went along with it and rarely complained – she seemed to enjoy reading the words of a villain with different voices she produced.

"What of your own child, Princess?" asked Lady Cassana Baratheon. "Wouldn't it be interesting to sew little dresses and tunics for the babe?"

Lyarra instinctively touched her belly. _I will be a mother soon_. She still couldn't believe it. Orys hadn't visited her chambers every single day, yet she was blessed by the old gods and new and now carried his child. When Lyarra announced it to her family at supper, everyone was thrilled. Lyarra was delighted, but also afraid. Women died every day giving birth – would she as well?

"Princess?" prompted Cassana.

"Maybe it's a little too early," said Lyarra, biting her lip. "I'm only in my fourth month. Grand Maester Pycelle said that if I am not careful, I might-"

"Don't, Princess!" said Melia Tully wildly. "Don't say it!"

Silence entered Lyarra's chambers. Some of the ladies glanced nervously from the elder Tully girl to Lyarra; others stared at their sewing. Their concerned eyes all expressed a question: _had she gone too far?_ "We will sew clothes for the poor," said Lyarra firmly. Mother had already started sewing baby clothes – having four dozen little socks, caps, tunics and blankets was slightly excessive for one babe. _I_ am _to bear more children though_.

Lyarra's lips twisted into distaste. A royal breeder. Like every noblewoman in Westeros, she knew since she was a girl that her primary duty would be to bear a litter of heirs for her lord husband, but at least she would have a household to be in charge of. Here at court, there was not much to do. Her good-mother the queen was content though, spending her time with her children, sewing and dispensing alms for the poor…

Was that all a queen did though?

 _If it is, I'd be happier being the Lady of the Dreadfort_. Lyarra prodded her patch of linen she began sewing into a long-sleeved tunic. After sewing for the last four days without doing much else, she felt something new: boredom. As she listened to Arya and Rosaline read aloud, her eyes swivelled around the room. Apart from Arya, Wylla Manderly and herself, the only other northerner present in the room was her newly appointed sworn shield, Jory Cassel. He stood silently at the door, two other Baratheon guards nearby. In Lyarra's circle of ladies, there were ladies from all over the Seven Kingdoms, including female relatives of the late Lannister lord. There were three of them: nineteen year old Myrielle Lannister, niece of the late Lord Tywin; fifteen year old Joanna Swyft, niece of Ser Kevan Lannister; and Joy Hill, the illegitimate niece of Lord Tywin who, despite Lannister disgrace, was betrothed to Lyarra's illegitimate good-brother Edric Storm. None of them were picked to honour House Lannister; it was to ensure Lannister loyalty. Joanna was there more to warn Ser Kevan, who was selected by the king to be the temporary Warden of the West until the Lannister successor was decided, as her father was Ser Kevan's good-brother.

After a few minutes of quietude, the ladies began conversing to each other. It's what usually happened – silence and then chatter. Unsurprisingly, the subject of discussion was betrothals. "I will not stay here for long," Ysilla was saying. "Once the royal court leaves for the Eyrie, I'll be going too and after Ser Harrold and the Lady Sansa's wedding, I have mine own wedding to attend to. My lord father had wanted me to wed one of Lord Redfort's sons for years – Lord Redfort finally said yes after he discovered his youngest son Ser Mychel promising marriage to Mya Stone. I suppose I'll be marrying Ser Mychel in a few weeks, but better a married woman than an old maid."

Melia nodded in agreement. "Are you upset at the prospect of wedding a third son, Lady Ysilla?"

Ysilla shrugged. "I have no choice in the matter, Lady Melia. Besides unlike you, I'm not my father's firstborn daughter. I have two older sisters who are now both in illustrious noble houses due to fine matches. Even if Ser Mychel's the third and youngest of Lord Redfort's sons, House Redfort is one of the most powerful noble houses in the Vale. What of you, Lady Melia? Will you wed soon?"

"I was to wed Ser Lancel Lannister," Melia responded, "but my father chose to end the betrothal after…what happened."

"My cousin is innocent of Lady Cersei's crimes," spoke Joanna Swyft sharply. "I hope you are aware of that, Lady Melia."

Lyarra continued poking her linen cloth. Poor Melia. If only she knew what her royal uncle the king was planning for her! Once Melia found out, she would wish a hundred times over that she was still to wed Ser Lancel Lannister.

"Who will rule the Seven Kingdoms in the king's place?" asked Rosaline, who'd abandoned the idea of reading aloud. "Will it be Lord Stannis again?"

"Quite so," said Lyarra with a nod. "He _is_ the Hand of the King. More so, I don't think he desires to journey to the Eyrie for the wedding."

"Who does not like a wedding? Cousin Lyanna's was wonderful! Mother said I could stay up and dance like Melia! I cannot wait for Cousin Sansa's wedding! It'll be my first time in the Eyrie too."

"Mine as well. My father spoke often of how he loved it there."

"When do you think we will leave?"

"Not long now. A couple of days maybe? A week?" Lyarra stood up. There was no point sewing when her mind wasn't into it. "Arya," she said, putting her patch of linen away. "Walk with me?"

* * *

"I wish we don't have to go back inside," said Arya with a sigh. "If I have to live here for the rest of my life, I prefer the outside to the inside." She kicked the dirt with her feet. "I still feel like a prisoner," she confessed. "I thought I would adjust to living here, but…I miss Winterfell."

"I do too," said Lyarra truthfully. "At least you can return home."

Arya scowled. "I won't if the king and Father marry me off to some southroner. Mother likes to remind me that I am not a child anymore. _You will be thirteen very shortly_ ," she mimicked Mother. "As _a child, you can run around and fight; as a lady, you cannot do that anymore. I fear we have indulged you for far too long._ "

"You won't marry a southroner," Lyarra told her. "Father promised that there will be no more southron matches in our family for some time. If the king insists, Father will put his foot down and refuse. Don't worry Arya, you'll be home soon. I know you will."

"Father said a countless number of times that he and Mother will be able to go back to Winterfell after the Vale wedding – you'll be all alone here."

"Bran will be with me."

Arya's scowl turned into a look of uncomfortableness. "Actually Lyarra, Father plans to bring Bran back to Winterfell."

Lyarra stopped in her tracks and stared at her. "What?" Bran leaving too? That was unexpected. Though Bran spent more of his time with Ormund than with her, it was still surprising. Bran was happy here…wasn't he? "When did our father tell you about this?" Lyarra pressed on.

"He…didn't," Arya admitted. "I might have heard it when I was trying to catch a cat a few days ago. He was talking to Mother when they were walking out of the Great Hall and I accidently overheard them."

"What else did they say?"

"Bran learnt enough here and he should learn to be a northerner now. That is a reason why Wylla is here. She and Bran will spend time together and when the time is ripe to return home, Bran will squire for Wylla's father Ser Wylis in White Harbour. If all goes to plan, Bran will be knighted, married to Wylla and with the agreement of Lord Manderly, Bran will be Lord of Wolf's Den."

"You heard all that when you were eavesdropping?" said Lyarra questioningly. It seemed like a solid plan though. Bran would still be a knight.

"I might have followed them a little bit to hear the rest of their conversation. I couldn't help it!" Arya exclaimed when Lyarra arched an eyebrow. "I thought it'd be worth listening to! What if they wanted _me_ to marry Ormund? I'd run home to Winterfell if I am forced to marry Ormund. It is not my path to marry a prince. I'd be a terrible princess." Arya huffed. "At least we'll be visiting the Eyrie," she said, a smile on her face now. "I always wanted to travel around Westeros. Oh, can you believe we never visited Mother's family in Dorne before? We saw them here and even in Highgarden, but never on Dornish land!"

"We will one day."

"Is it true, Lyarra?"

"What is?"

"You wrote to Syrio, asking him to come here to continue instructing me in the art of water dancing?"

Lyarra nodded. "If he returns to Braavos, Father will never be able to find you another instructor like him. I asked Syrio Forel to meet us before the wedding in the Vale. If you are to return home, Syrio will go with you. If you are to come back here with me, Syrio will come as well. I will ensure Robb pays for his journey."

Arya smirked. "What if he doesn't pay?"

"He'll have to on my orders." Lyarra's eyes gleamed. It felt like the old days at Winterfell when Arya plotted revenge against Jeyne Poole. Lyarra never plotted a speck of revenge, but there was always a first. Though she was satisfied with her marriage to Orys up to now, she still remembered Robb's crime and wasn't ready to forgive him – even now.

"Lyarra." Orys walked up to her. Behind him were his companions: his cousins Steffon Baratheon and Hoster Tully, Gerold Hightower (Chalysse's brother), Cley Cerwyn (why was he still here? He was to have left seven months ago yet he was still at King's Landing), the Blackwood brothers Hoster and Edmund, Ser Hendry Bracken, Radford Rykker, Jared Buckwell and Arthur Estermont. Orys glanced at Arya. "Lady Arya," he acknowledged.

"Lord husband." Lyarra dipped her head as Arya wobbled a curtsey. "I thought you had business with the small council today?"

"I did," said Orys, taking her hand as he did every time they went for a walk in the gardens every morning and every evening. As usual, Lyarra felt duty rather a sense of affection when her fingers curled around Orys's. Perhaps in a number of years, fondness would replace obligation. At least Orys was solemn rather than a hot-blooded man who chased after every woman he lusted after. Lyarra wouldn't know what to do if she was married to a lusty man. "It finished early with both of my uncles and my father storming out angrily," Orys went on. "Not a pretty sight, I can assure you. Not a pretty sight at all."

 _Should I ask him what happened?_ Some men did not like curious wives. Lyarra decided to be bold. "What happened?" she inquired warily.

"The small council was dealing with all of the inheritance dilemmas," Orys told her without hesitation. "Two to be precise: Rosby and Casterly Rock. Rosby is ah, more troublesome. There are many who claim Rosby lands, chiefly Ser Perwyn of House Frey, Lady Stokeworth and Lord Hightower." They slowly walked towards the courtyard. Arya darted away and Orys's companions began to separate. "My uncle Renly supports Lord Hightower," Orys continued, "while Uncle Stannis is in favour of Ser Perwyn."

"Who does my father support?"

"I believe Lord Stark was favouring Ser Perwyn as he is twice great nephew to the late Lord Rosby through his late mother. Lady Stokeworth is aunt to the Lord Rosby's second wife who was also his third cousin and Lord Hightower has…the weakest claim as he was widower to Lady Jeyne Rosby, Lord Rosby's niece. They – Lord Hightower and Lady Jeyne – had no children. If they had, their child would have been the next Lord or Lady of Rosby."

"Ser Perwyn is the rightful heir then, is he not? He has Rosby blood."

Orys nodded and scowled. "My uncle Renly only supports Lord Hightower due to his affection towards his lover, the Knight of Flowers. Everyone in the council is aware that Ser Perwyn Frey has the best claim."

"You mentioned Casterly Rock too."

"Yes. Three claimants: my cousin Steffon, his uncle Tyrion and his great uncle, Ser Kevan. It should be Tyrion as he is the late Lord Tywin's son and heir, but he is a dwarf and Uncle Renly thinks Casterly Rock would be better under Ser Kevan. I believe he said that because if Ser Kevan is Lord of Casterly Rock, his heir is Ser Lancel and the Tyrells want him to marry one of their own. The Lannisters aren't in much of a position to refuse that offer. Uncle Stannis says that being a dwarf is not an excuse for Tyrion not to inherit." He darkened. "And then Uncle Renly said that of course Uncle Stannis would defend him because he loves those disfigured, common born and flawed. When he said disfigured, everyone knew he referred to my cousin Shireen. That insulted Uncle Stannis greatly and that was when the shouting began. Father was wise enough to end the meeting then."

"How cruel of Lord Renly," said Lyarra softly. She had met and spoken to Lady Shireen a few times and found her to be a sweet girl.

Orys nodded. "He never liked Uncle Stannis's opinions. He said I should not be attending small council meetings," he added with a look of distaste. "I wager that he only said that because it was Uncle Stannis who insisted that as I'm the crown prince, it is my duty to attend and learn."

"Lord Stannis is right though."

"Indeed. My uncle Stannis is often right." Silence joined their conversation for a moment. "I fear my mother will never forgive him," Orys said softly, "or my lord father when she discovers what they are planning for Melia." He sighed. "She is a sweet lady, Melia Tully."

"Cassana says Tyrion is kind. Whenever he visited Storm's End, he would give her and her siblings gifts almost every time."

"That is nothing to marriage."

"How is our child?" said Orys, changing the subject. Lyarra smiled. "All is well," she answered. "The Grand Maester says I should still be careful."

"You should stay here instead of going to the Vale," Orys said decidedly. "I fear the journey might be too straining for you. It will be disastrous if you miscarry or deliver a stillborn due to that." He brightened. "I'll talk to my father and mother – they will understand our concerns. Maybe you will be able to stay here and rest. I am certain my aunt Lady Arryn will understand. She birthed three children."

 _No!_ Lyarra wanted to shout. _Don't leave me here!_ If her good-sister Lyanna did not leave for a progress around the Reach, perhaps remaining behind would be a little bit more tolerable. When Lyarra settled in King's Landing, Lyanna chose not to speak to her unless required. Lyarra expected it fully. However, Lyanna did at the end, warm up to her again. By the time Lyarra attended Lyanna's wedding (it was held at King's Landing five months ago), tears appeared in both of their eyes when it was time for Lyanna to leave for her new home.

As they entered the courtyard, Lyarra wondered where Lyanna was now. Had she reached Highgarden yet? Surely she would've. She took a deep breath. "If it is decided that I stay behind," she said bravely, "may I invite Lyanna back? I fear I'd be bored without company as all of you except Lord Stannis will be journeying to the Eyrie for the wedding. I cannot possibly ask your mother to remain with me – it's her sister's daughter getting married after all." Her heart pounded quicker as her husband frowned slightly. _I have never made a request before – what if he says no?_ Why would he? Orys didn't despise his sister.

"It will be up to Lyanna," Orys said at last. "She is a married woman now and if she wishes to come to King's Landing, I will have no objection." He looked a little more thoughtful now. "I believe Willas said he wouldn't be going to the Vale – his leg couldn't handle the long journey or something."

Lyarra smiled. "You can represent me and our unborn child."

"I will." Orys didn't smile. Lyarra almost sighed. Of course Orys would deem it his duty to represent them. "I will be busy tonight," he said, releasing her hand as the stopped near the middle of the courtyard. "Council matters." _More like you do not need to share a bed with me,_ thought Lyarra. "I'll break my fast with you," her husband promised, "in the morning."

"Of course my lord," murmured Lyarra. She watched Orys walk inside, some of his friends rejoining him. This time she sighed out loud. Breakfasting with Orys – that was what occurred every day…for the last seven to eight months. Orys was a man of schedule and routine, and nothing would ever change that.

* * *

 **I thought it would be nice to write a chapter about what's happening at court in Lyarra's POV (especially as the last was in Domeric's) and how her marriage with Orys is going. As for all that Stannis and Renly business, I always liked Stannis better in canon (the TV show had to have him sacrifice Shireen and for him to die offscreen though?).**


	96. Tyrion

After months stewing around at King's Landing, spending his time between an alehouse and his favourite upscale brothel on the Street of Silk owned and run by a Summer Islander woman called Chataya, Tyrion _finally_ received summons to a small council meeting.

Humming a jolly tune to himself, Tyrion waddled to the council chamber in an unusually good mood. It would be too good to be true if the king decided to grant him Casterly Rock as was his right, but even a dwarf could dream. As a child, he'd been fascinated with dragons – to an extent, he still was – and had used to dream he owned one. At times Tyrion would imagine his father and sister burning in his dragon's fiery breath. Nowadays Tyrion dreamt more about sitting on the golden throne atop the dais in Casterly Rock's vast Great Hall as Lord of Casterly Rock. It was his right after all.

The council chamber's doors opened and Tyrion toddled in on his stunted legs. He smiled at the lords present. None of them smiled back.

"Your Grace," said Tyrion, bowing before the king. "My lords Baratheon, Stark, Redwyne, Tyrell and Seaworth. Grand Maester Pycelle, I see you look well, as do you Ser Barristan." The king gestured for him to sit down on the spare chair put at the opposite end of the table. Tyrion climbed on it easily. "I believe we are two councillors short," he noted. "Lord Varys and my uncle Ser Kevan."

"You know where your uncle is, Imp," said Lord Tyrell distastefully. He shifted a little closer to Lord Redwyne and away from Tyrion.

"I cannot possibly know where Lord Varys is too."

"Enough," said the king irritably. "Lord Tyrion, I didn't summon you here for a squabble between you and Lord Tyrell."

Tyrion smiled and fixed his mismatched eyes on him. "As you say, Your Grace," he said pleasantly. "What have I been summoned here for?"

"The matter of Casterly Rock," spoke Lord Stannis Baratheon.

"There is naught to discuss about it my lord, except that I have been kept from Casterly Rock for far too long. Every time I wish to leave King's Landing, I'd been told I am not allowed! For how long am I to remain an honoured guest, my lord? I am the Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West after all." It was bold, but it was necessary. Tyrion looked at the other lords. Lords Baratheon and Stark were as usual, stoic as ever; the Onion Knight – Onion _Lord_ more like – looked troubled, as did Lord Redwyne; the king didn't seem particularly interested at all; and Lord Tyrell, well he was spluttering in rage.

"You have no right to say that Imp!" Spittle flew out of the Fat Flower's mouth as he blustered. "You are as much the Lord of Casterly Rock as I am a prince!"

"Enough Lord Tyrell!" said Lord Stannis Baratheon sharply. "Let this matter of Casterly Rock be sorted" – he grinded his teeth – "as affably as we can manage."

"There is nothing to discuss my lords," Tyrion couldn't help say. "Your rightful lord is here." He pointed at himself. "Will you deny me the rights to Casterly Rock due to my deformities as a dwarf? Will you all condemn me because of that? Am I to remain here as a source of amusement while you happily grant my inheritance away to a _whole_ man?"

"We will not deny you Casterly Rock due to you being a dwarf."

Lord Tyrell coughed. "Ser Kevan is the more-"

"Lord Tyrion is the late Lord Tywin's son," the Grand Maester suddenly said as if he had just woken up. "He has more right than Ser Kevan Lannister."

"We have already decided Lord Tyrion is to succeed," said Lord Stark, glancing at Tyrion. "Why are we still deliberating the matter, my lords? A better use of our time would be telling him the terms."

"Terms?" questioned Tyrion.

"Ned is right," said the king quite predictably. "Let's get a move on." He looked at Lord Stannis. "Tell Lord Tyrion the terms."

"You'll be Lord of Casterly Rock," said Lord Baratheon shortly, "if you agree to the king's terms. Apart from swearing fealty to His Grace, you'll swear in the Great Sept of Baelor that there will be no more incest among your descendants and if incest reappears, your descendants will forfeit Casterly Rock to the descendants of your uncle Ser Kevan Lannister."

"What if I plan not to have sons?" At times like this, Tyrion wished he was able to hold his tongue.

Lord Baratheon narrowed his eyes. "Furthermore, you will wed Lady Melia of House Tully. If you cannot agree to the terms, Ser Kevan will be lord."

Tyrion's throat suddenly felt dry. "Lord…Lord Tully is pleased with having his daughter married to an imp?" he choked out. "Might I remind you that it was the Lord of Riverrun's late father that refused me for his daughter Lady Arryn? From what I remember, he required a 'whole man' for his daughter."

"The Lady Melia will do her duty. House Tully will receive further honours."

That didn't sound like Tully behaviour – accepting bribed honours and having their daughters married off to imps? Seven Hells, what did that poor Tully girl do to deserve a horrible fate such as this? Tyrion felt ill.

"Well?" said Lord Baratheon impatiently.

"That is an unfair bargain," Tyrion said hollowly. He was so close to the title of Lord of Casterly Rock yet to marry a girl who sings songs of chivalrous and brave knights with handsome faces…that was something he didn't want to do. If he did wed her, their marriage would be utterly miserable. He'd probably drink himself to death; Lady Melia would probably jump into the Sunset Sea out of utter misery or conduct a series of affairs with attractive men. Tyrion wouldn't blame her if by chance she did sleep with other men.

"Unfair?" chortled Lord Tyrell. "That is far too fair, Lord Tyrion. His Grace here has offered you his own niece as your wife." More like the king's good-niece – the king would never offer a Baratheon to a dwarf, but Tyrion kept his mouth shut. It would do him no good to retort.

The king shrugged. "Ser Kevan will be Lord of Casterly Rock then." He grunted as he rose. Without giving his small council a second glance, he lumbered out the door. Tyrion watched him leave and then looked back at the lords present. All of them – even the Fat Flower of Highgarden – were silent. Mumbling to himself, old Grand Maester Pycelle stood up and shuffled out, the sound of his chains clinking softly as he left.

It was time to leave. "If all of you may excuse me," said Tyrion, climbing down from his chair and heading to the door.

"Wait," said Lord Baratheon. Tyrion stopped. "I hope you are comfortable here in King's Landing," Lord Stannis said almost ominously. Tyrion tilted his head. "If I'm permitted to drink wine and fuck whores, I suppose I will die happy." Pleased to see a look of horror and disgust on Lord Tyrell's face, Tyrion sauntered out of the council chamber, greatly embittered.

* * *

For the rest of the day, Tyrion moped in his chambers, cursing Cersei and their father. He would be lying if he was not glad Lord Tywin was dead, but for him to be killed by shock at Cersei's crimes? If he had died in better times, Tyrion would succeed without question – even if Lord Tywin did not want him to.

"Seven Hells to you Father," Tyrion muttered, sipping his wine. As he stared at the wall, he couldn't help but curse Lord Tywin again. When he was alive, Tyrion would curse him – it seems that now he was dead, Tyrion would still curse him, if not even more. Then again, Tyrion hated his father and his father hated him with equal passion. "Lord Tywin's Bane," the smallfolk had called Tyrion when he was born. The Mad King and the begging brothers in Oldtown had agreed _. It seems my whole purpose is to be a thorn to Lord Tywin's side. Even now._ Tyrion wondered if the proud Lord Tywin would be pleased or displeased at his refusal to wed Melia Tully. He would be delighted Casterly Rock was refused to Tyrion, but Lady Melia was a splendid choice of bride. Not many offers would come along for a dwarf of House Lannister. Tyrion knew that well. He'd been offered to Elia Martell, Lysa of House Tully, girls from Houses Royce and Hightower and even to Delena Florent, who was deflowered by the king. None of their fathers – or mother in the case of Elia Martell – wanted a Lannister dwarf for a good-son.

The door opened and Ser Kevan walked in, looking weary from his travels.

"Uncle," acknowledged Tyrion. He raised his goblet. "A drink? I did not expect to see you here. I thought you'd be at Casterly Rock, waiting for the arrival of the western lords to swear fealty to you."

Ser Kevan frowned. "Why would I do that?"

"You are Lord of Casterly Rock after all."

Ser Kevan's frown deepened. "You're talking nonsense Tyrion." His green eyes landed on the empty bottle of Arbor gold on Tyrion's round table. "Perhaps you'd drunk enough. By the Seven Tyrion, were you drinking all day?"

"Of course not!" said Tyrion, shocked. "Who do you think I am? The king?"

"The queen does not like him drinking."

Tyrion snorted. "What man fully listens to the whims of his lady wife?"

"I would say Lord Stark for one, but that does not matter now. The lords of the Westerlands are getting restless. There is no Lord of Casterly Rock and I fear that some of the western lords are getting bolder. A few are even claiming the right to Casterly Rock and Lannister lands, Houses Lefford and Crakehall primarily. It is a relief that House Marbrand is still loyal to us even though many Marbrand ladies have married into House Lannister and Lannister ladies into House Marbrand. If there is a House other than the Lannister cadet branches that have the closest ah, claim, to Casterly Rock, it would be House Marbrand."

"No one will follow a Lefford or Crakehall of Casterly Rock."

"They might if the Lefford or Crakehall have Lannister blood."

Tyrion considered it. Westermen were not as loyal to their Lannister lords as, say the northmen were to their Stark liege lords. For good reasons too. The Rains of Castamere echoed in Tyrion's mind. Everyone alive knew about the Reynes of Castamere and how Lord Tywin destroyed all of them and their ally the Tarbecks when they rose in rebellion. It didn't win Lord Tywin much love from his vassals, but it did bring House Lannister from the pits of ridicule.

"Tyrion?"

"It seems you will be Lord of Casterly Rock," said Tyrion lightly. "I was given a set of terms to be granted Casterly Rock – I refused."

Ser Kevan stared at him, astonished. "You refused? Tyrion! You had often told me that Casterly Rock is yours by right! Why in the Seven did you refuse?"

Tyrion swallowed his wine in one gulp. "The king and Lord Baratheon wanted me to marry Lady Melia Tully," he said heavily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "That I won't do. I was to also swear in the Great Sept that there'll be no further incest in my lineage or Casterly Rock will be forfeit. I am convinced that it was insisted by the High Septon."

"Melia Tully is a good match Tyrion. She is the king's-"

"I know, I know," Tyrion cut in. "Lady Melia Tully is the king's good-niece and I should be honoured to marry her. You think I haven't thought of that?"

Ser Kevan's gaze softened slightly, but his frown remained. "You gave up your claim to Casterly Rock for Lady Melia?"

"Our married life would've been hell, Uncle. Who would be happy married to a dwarf like me? Certainly not a young girl."

"I know Tywin never wanted you to inherit Casterly Rock, but I don't think he would want to leave you landless. Besides, what sort of uncle would I be if I leave you without a bit of land on your own? If the king does confirm Casterly Rock on me, I'll give you Golden Tooth. Of course you'll have to wed Lady Alysanne, but to my knowledge she is not a young girl."

Tyrion sighed. "I'd rather travel around the Free Cities and drink myself to an early death than marry for land."

"You are more than welcome to take a tour of the Free Cities. Surely you know that wedding for land is how our Houses increase in power."

"Of course. When I was a boy, the maester would tell me that every day. I had suspected he said that to taunt me of my uselessness."

"Will you consider marrying Lady Melia?"

"No," said Tyrion adamantly. He put down the cup and stood up. "Enough talk on marriages that will never happen, Uncle. Now if you can excuse me, I'll go and visit my niece Shireen. I promised her yesterday that I would see her to discuss a book about dragons. Have some Arbor gold if you wish, Uncle. You looked thirsty from travel. And tired." Without another word, Tyrion waddled out of his rooms and headed to the set of chambers he labelled the Baratheon wing. Technically it was just six guest chambers, but as Lord Stannis's family were pretty much a part of the royal family, they were given rooms in Maegor's Holdfast. Probably when a new litter of Baratheon princes and princesses were born, Lord Baratheon would move out to normal guest chambers with his children.

King Robert must've returned to his own rooms, as the Blackfish was standing stoically at the far end of the drawbridge. Ser Brynden looked down at Tyrion as he approached. Ser Brynden Tully didn't seem at all pleased to see him. "Imp," he greeted him hoarsely.

"Blackfish," Tyrion responded. "Splendid day, isn't it?"

The Blackfish took an intimidating step towards him and his calloused fingers casually brushed the hilt of his sword. "If you harm one hair on my great niece, I will cut off your cock," he warned threateningly, "and throw it into the river."

"What great niece?" said Tyrion innocently. "I thought that as a sworn brother of the Kingsguard, you have no great niece."

"You think you're funny, don't you Imp?" The Blackfish glared at him. "We will see if you are still laughing once your cock is being nibbled by the fish. I'd rather see Melia a happy widow than your unhappy wife. Understand, Imp?" A tiny stab of hurt prodded Tyrion. Why did everyone think he would treat his future wife or any woman badly? He was a dwarf, but not a tyrant.

"Then you will be very happy to hear that I won't be marrying the Lady Melia," Tyrion said as steadily as he could manage. "I refused to marry her and my uncle Ser Kevan will be Lord of Casterly Rock. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to visit my niece Lady Shireen, or am I not allowed to see her too?"

The Blackfish gave Tyrion a long look before stepping aside. As Tyrion walked inside, he felt Ser Brynden's sharp blue eyes bore into the back of his head.

The Baratheon wing was virtually empty. Unsurprising, as Steffon was now in his cousin Prince Orys's circle of friends, Cassana settled in Princess Lyarra's and young Robert resuming his training with Ser Barristan the Bold. It was only Lady Shireen in her rooms today. As Tyrion went into her chambers, he noticed that it wasn't just Shireen in her rooms – her prospective stepmother was there too.

"Lady Desmera," said Tyrion, nodding at Lady Desmera Redwyne. "Quite a big surprise seeing you here."

"Lord Tyrion," Lady Desmera returned. "My…betrothed said it would be best if I came here to spend time with his daughter Shireen. The queen agreed."

"I see," said Tyrion pleasantly. "What are you ladies discussing?"

"I was describing my home to Lady Shireen. She told me that she'd only visited King's Landing and is keen to see the rest of the Seven Kingdoms."

"An excellent wish!" Tyrion beamed at his smiling niece. "Perhaps one day it'll be the two of us travelling around the Seven Kingdoms!"

"You've already been to many places, Uncle Tyrion," Shireen pointed out.

"Not every exciting place," Tyrion assured her. "Only yesterday I had a sudden whim to travel north and visit the Wall."

Shireen looked at him curiously. "Why? Cassana had told me that the Princess Lyarra told her that there's a war with the wildlings at the Wall."

"Wouldn't it be exciting, Shireen? I'd be the first dwarf to stand on the Wall – a splendid sight eh?"

Shireen giggled. "If you can be seen. You are quite short, Uncle."

Tyrion chuckled. "So I am." He paused thoughtfully. "Did you know that when I was a boy – around the same age as you are – I thought if I studied at my books, I would have a good chance of becoming the next High Septon?" Shireen clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laugh. "Yes," said Tyrion, nodding solemnly. "It is shocking, is it not? Can you imagine it, Niece? Me as the High Septon? I thought if I could be the High Septon, wearing that high crystal crown would add a foot to my height." Devoutness disappeared when he met Tysha…

Shireen stopped laughing. "Why didn't you become the High Septon, Uncle? To be High Septon is a high honour. Maester Cressen told me once that anyone – the lowborn and highborn – are able to be septons and septas and any septon can be the High Septon. Even septas can be a part of the Most Devout."

"I fell in love," Tyrion said simply.

"You did?" breathed Shireen, wide-eyed. Lady Desmera edged out of the room. Tyrion was grateful for that. "Who is she?"

"A girl," answered Tyrion quietly. "Dark-haired, slender…beautiful."

"You didn't marry her?"

 _Oh, I did. We were married for a fortnight. We might've been married for much longer if that drunken septon kept his mouth shut._ "It was a long time ago," Tyrion reflected. "I was thirteen; she was fourteen at the most. My father found out…and it was all over. It ended. While I stayed in Casterly Rock, she was sent faraway. To this day, I still don't know where she is."

"You should try and find her," said Shireen kindly. "If you love her very much, it will be easy for you to find her."

Tyrion smiled faintly. _My sweet summer niece, sometimes if you search for the love of your life, you might die still hunting her down_. It was better not to allow his mind to wonder to Tysha or start searching for her. It would only disappoint him more when the search results came up empty. "What of you?" he asked teasingly. "Is there a charming young lad that you fancy?" He chuckled as a warm red blush crept slowly upon Shireen's unmarred cheek. Tyrion whistled softly. "Well! Who is this boy and does your solemn father know him?"

Shireen hesitated. "My father knows him," she admitted with a shy smile.

"Will he approve?"

"I don't know, Uncle. I don't know if…if he likes me. Not many people can love a disfigured girl like me."

"I'm a dwarf," Tyrion pointed out. "I will never forget who I am. A dwarf. That is the truth is it not? I will never pretend to think I'm a handsome knight riding to rescue a damsel or a dragon lord. I once dreamt the latter, but not anymore." He gazed at Shireen with his mismatched green and black eyes. "Do you know why I never forget I am a dwarf?"

"The rest of the world won't forget it," said Shireen quietly.

Tyrion nodded. "Indeed."

"We wear our deformities like armour," Shireen went on reflectively, "and the disfigurements can never be used to hurt us. You told me that when I was little. It was when you were my only friend and my siblings didn't know me. Every night I would repeat what you told me before I would sleep."

"Does it work?"

"Yes. I used to be very embarrassed and would hide from sight. Now I have no fear walking in the gardens of the Red Keep, dining with my cousins and siblings and reading in the library. I still like moments of solitude though."

"As do I." Tyrion grinned. "Now, I believe you asked me yesterday to come and discuss dragons with you. Dragons happen to be my favourite topic. Can you see me riding Balerion the Black Dread? I don't think anyone can even see me atop a great black dragon like him!"

* * *

 **Sorry I didn't upload earlier! I was stuck on a chapter and had to deal with a huge assignment worth 50%. I really enjoyed writing the Tyrion and Shireen scene - might write more of them in the future.**


	97. Robb IV

Daenerys was still fast asleep when Robb roused himself up at dawn. The icy wind nipped the back of his neck as he padded blearily across the room. How the frosty breeze could penetrate his bedchamber through the heavy tapestries that covered the high narrow windows was a mystery.

Quietly changing into a grey woollen tunic and pants from his nightwear Robb closed the bedchamber door behind him before making his way to the solar. Grey Wind joined him as usual. As Robb pushed his pile of papers onto one side of the table, the solar door opened. Robb didn't even need to glance up to know that his first visitors were Maester Luwin and Greatjon Umber. At first Robb was slightly taken back when Lord Umber started marching into the solar at dawn. Robb had not expected that a man like the Greatjon would bother waking up at dawn every morning. He'd assumed the Greatjon preferred sleeping in. It was not long before Robb discovered that the Umbers all wake up early at Last Hearth – usually to be ready for wildling watch.

"Lord Umber, Maester Luwin," greeted Robb, biting in a yawn.

"Robb," returned Maester Luwin. Lord Umber grunted. The maester handed a scrap of parchment to Robb. "From the Wall, my lord."

Robb read it eagerly. His heart sank.

"A tough victory," Lord Umber said, watching him like a hawk. "At least plenty of wildling scum are dead now."

"As are so many men of the Night's Watch," murmured Robb. "A costly victory for the black brothers." There had been a skirmish on the Bridge of Skulls – it had seemed the wildlings thought to attack from the gate south of the Wall. "How did the men of the Night's Watch snatch victory?"

"It was close," Lord Umber said gruffly. "Very close. If the black brothers lost, I wager we would all be fighting the wildlings off our lands for the rest of our lives. Unsuccessfully most of the time. If it wasn't for your half-brother getting lost, the Night's Watch would've been decimated completely."

"What?" said Robb, astonished. "Jon is a hero?"

Greatjon Umber snorted. "You a southron flower, young Stark? Only southron fools believe in heroes and southron shit like that. Might as well tell you now that your half-brother _Ser_ Jon Snow knows nothing. You know why he was sent off to the Shadow Tower? For being a fool. He is a fair fighter from what I heard, but an utter fool when it comes to wildings. Who hesitates to kill a fucking wildling?" He quickly said, "He did prevent the wildlings from gaining access from the south. It was…good. My cousin Ogden sent me a raven yesterday, stating that Jon was sent to check the supplies but he went the wrong way and saw wildlings sneaking to a southron gate. He raised the alarm and battle commenced. At least he didn't stop and hesitate this time." He nodded approvingly.

"How many dead?" asked Robb.

"At least a hundred," said Maester Luwin, producing another piece of paper. "I received this from Bowen Marsh, Lord Steward of the Night's Watch. It's a rough number of how many dead." Robb looked at the piece of paper. The words there were minimal, barely legible and bloodstained. "The wildlings lost a vast number of men and women too," he commented.

"It should hold the wildlings back for a day or two," calculated the Greatjon. "It will give the black brothers and our men a small, much needed respite."

"I'll write to Jon-" Robb caught sight of the maester's troubled expression. "Um, is something wrong, Maester?"

"Near the end of the battle," said Maester Luwin hesitantly, "Jon disappeared. I don't know the details, but I heard the news from one of the scouts. After the um, skirmish, most of the bodies were recovered and recognised before they were all burnt on a pyre. Jon's body wasn't there."

Panic entered Robb's voice. "How could Jon _disappear?_ "

"I suspect he was captured by wildlings-"

"Impossible," Greatjon Umber cut in. "Wildlings don't take prisoners. They kill everything living – animals and humans. They are bloody savages."

"They might take prisoners," countered Maester Luwin, "if under orders from a less savage leader."

Lord Umber's lips formed a grimace. "That King-Beyond-the-Wall."

"I believe he is a reasonable man, my lord Umber. A shrewd man. He will know the significant value in capturing northmen. Even though Jon is your half-brother, he is still of great importance to House Stark."

The Greatjon snorted. "Not on the Wall he's not. Half the men still recall him as the fool who allowed a wildling bitch to escape." His gaze softened a little. "Jon is your brother after all, young Stark. If the old gods wanted him dead, he'd be dead and his body burnt or sent back if that was your wish."

Robb stared blankly at the table. He should never have allowed Jon to leave to Castle Black – what sort of man would send his brother to his death, or worse, an eternity with the wildlings?

"Robb?" said Maester Luwin gently.

"What are the chances of Jon returning alive?" Robb heard himself ask.

Greatjon Umber scratched his chin in thought. "Alive and in one piece? Highly unlikely. Alive and crippled, more likely."

"Unless Mance Rayder instructs his men to not harm Jon."

"I'll send out a search party," declared Robb. "Jon must be found."

"With what men, my lord?" said Maester Luwin patiently as Lord Umber gave Robb a questionable look. "The only people that are at all familiar with the lands beyond the Wall are men of the Night's Watch and the wildlings." He looked a bit uncomfortable. "I don't think either party are willing to help at the moment as ah, they are both at war with each other."

"Jon must be found!" Robb insisted. "He's my brother!"

"Young Stark," spoke Lord Umber, "I lost a great deal of family members since I was a babe." His eyes were now hollow with sadness. "You grief, you get over it. Don't wallow in sorrow and despair, young Stark," he said almost abruptly. "Your duty is to Winterfell and the North, Ser Jon Snow did his duty as a soldier; you're the acting Lord of Winterfell."

"Did you say that to yourself when you lost your brothers?"

Greatjon Umber darkened. "As a matter of fact, I did. How many brothers and sisters do you think I have now?"

Robb frowned. He was unaware that Lord Umber had any sisters. "Did you not have two brothers? One was killed in a wildling attack I believe."

"I had _five_ brothers," Lord Umber corrected him. "All but one died and they all died in wilding attacks and skirmishes. As for sisters, I had one. She was to wed a Liddle but she was abducted by a wildling. See what wildlings do, young Stark? It is best to eliminate them. I told you all that before."

"I can't sit and do nothing about Jon!" Robb stood up. He had enough. All Lord Umber did was complain and curse wildlings. "Once the war is over, I'll have men sent to find Jon," he said stubbornly. "No, I won't wait that long. Jon could be half-dead as we speak. I need experienced men sent to find him today. By the gods it'll take too much time travelling to the Wall anyway."

"Who will go beyond the Wall for a bastard?" demanded Greatjon Umber, who was losing his patience (not that he had much of it to begin with).

"He's my brother!" snapped Robb. He turned to Maester Luwin. "I trust you to send all the ravens and write the letters that need to be answered to today? I am not in the mood to answer diplomatically." Feeling Greatjon Umber's eyes staring into him disapprovingly, Robb left. It was much too early to expect anyone else in Winterfell to be awake at the moment, but the old gods were always prepared to listen to one's prayers and thoughts.

Pulling a thick fur cloak over his shoulders, Robb headed to the godswood. To his relief, Jojen Reed was not there. Every time Robb planned for an hour or so in the godswood alone, Jojen was already kneeling in front of the heart tree with his eyes shut and his expression one of peace. This time the heir of Greywater Watch was still curled up in bed.

Dried leaves that had fallen from the oak trees and ironwoods crunched under Robb's shoes as he walked towards the ancient heart tree. Robb sat down on the moss-covered stone and lowered his gaze to the small, still, black pool. The deep-cut eyes on the heart tree, red with dried sap, glared at him.

 _I wish Father's here_ , thought Robb as he listened to the leaves whispering and rustling amongst themselves. _He always knows what to do: how to appease all the lords, bring to peace to the North, deal with quarrelsome vassals…I still feel like an utter fool when the lords look at me with contempt._ Not that many northern lords visited over the last couple of months. The Cerwyns would usually pay a visit but apparently Cley Cerwyn was still enjoying court life in the south while his father, Lord Medger Cerwyn, was at Castle Black with most of their men. Winterfell was busy as it was anyway, with Lyanna Mormont and Alys Karstark staying until the wildling was was over. Lady Alys was pleasant to chat to; Lady Lyanna Mormont reminded Robb uneasily of Arya.

"She'll never forgive me," Robb murmured as the blood red eyes of the ancient heart tree glowered disapprovingly at him. "Lyarra will never forgive me either." Arya hadn't written a single letter to him in the last eight months. Lyarra had – it was short, courteous as if it was a prince writing to a vassal lord and did not at all mention Daenerys. All Lyarra wrote was requesting the Braavosi water dancer to meet Arya in the Eyrie when the royal court arrives there for the wedding. There weren't any pleasantries written and Lyarra didn't even write ' _your sister Lyarra_ ' at the end of the letter as she usually did whenever she wrote from the Dreadfort. Instead, it was ' _Lyarra of Houses Baratheon and Stark, Crown Princess of the Seven Kingdoms_ '. Robb's lips tightened. He was glad Syrio Forel was to leave, but to…to be ordered by his own sister!

"Robb."

Robb groaned. "Maester Luwin, can't I have a moment alone in _peace?_ "

Maester Luwin shuffled closer. "No lord has a moment alone in peace. Did you ever see your father have a moment of peace, my lord Robb?"

"What is it now? I suppose I should go and apologise to Lord Umber."

"Later, my lord." Robb stared at the maester. Later? "I bring urgent news from Lady Hornwood," said Maester Luwin, handing him a folded piece of paper. "I am aware that Jon's disappearance took you by shock, but Hornwood needs aid."

Robb unfolded the paper and glanced at it. "Not wildlings?" he said, astounded. He squinted at the words again. "What? Bandits and brigands raiding Hornwood lands?" He looked at Maester Luwin. "Are you certain, Maester? This is odd. Who would attack Hornwood lands now?" He read the letter again. His heart sank. The Boltons. Of course they would attack Hornwood lands. Bolton lands bordered the Hornwood's and every lord had his eye on land expansion. "Lord Bolton does not strike me as the type," Robb said uncertainly. "He is calculating and patient. He'd not send his men to raid Hornwood lands without strong allies to back him up as he knows the Hornwoods will send a message to us requesting help. Besides, he's a man who ensures his lands are peaceful."

" _His_ lands my lord, not any other lord's lands."

"Yes, but I cannot imagine Lord Bolton sanctioning this. Besides, isn't Domeric celebrating his wedding with Lady Arrana Umber?"

"It is indeed odd. I suspect it is Lord Bolton's ah, bastard, who's leading a band of unsavoury people to attack Hornwood lands. He might be bitter that he has no land of his own and now that Domeric is home for good with a lady wife, chances of being legitimised are extremely slim. This is only a theory, Robb. Perhaps Lady Hornwood mistaken wildlings for bandits as I believe she hadn't seen a wildling before. She was a Manderly," he added for Robb's benefit, "before she was wed to Lord Hornwood. The Manderlys are more about trade and export – I do not think they have seen many wildlings before."

"Will Lord Bolton be offended if I send him a letter of uh, warning?"

"He might," said Maester Luwin honestly, "but he would know you would send him a letter of warning if it was him authorising the raids."

"I will go to the Hornwood with a troop of men," Robb said slowly, "maybe two troops. I will deal with the bandits in person." He looked at Maester Luwin with a sense of defiance. "I should do more than deal with politics." _And find a number of allies,_ he wanted to add.

Maester Luwin's expression remained neutral. "When you capture the bandits, what will you do with them?"

"Promise them mercy if they tell me why they are attacking Hornwood lands. I don't believe they raid without good reason."

"You will allow the brigands to live?"

"I will send them to the Wall without the loss of a hand. If they plan to remain silent, they will lose their sword hands and be imprisoned in the coldest dungeon for the rest of their lives." Robb felt uncomfortable but knew it had to be said. He was acting lord and the lord carried the sentence. "If we discover the leader, he'll be captured and executed. I will swing the blade myself."

Maester Luwin studied him solemnly. "Even if the leader is Lord Bolton?"

Robb swallowed and nodded. "I'd prefer to send him to the Wall."

"Lord Stark left you as acting lord and the Stark in Winterfell. If you leave, you will remain the acting lord, but not the Stark in Winterfell."

"Arthur will be the Stark in Winterfell."

"Do you know what the Stark in Winterfell does, my lord?"

Robb bit in an impatient sigh. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell as it is Winterfell that defines House Stark and it's also the heart and soul of the North. It was said that with a Stark in Winterfell, tradition will always prevail."

"That is the _reason_ why there is always a Stark in Winterfell." Luwin the tutor was back instead of Luwin the advisor. "That's not what the Stark in Winterfell is tasked to do. The Stark in Winterfell is similar to acting lord. He will have to deal with the land disputes, marriage contracts, family feuds…almost everything that the acting lord must sort out. The only dissimilarity is that the Stark in Winterfell does not march off to war as it defeats the purpose of the Stark in Winterfell. It is also said and believed by many that if there is not a Stark in Winterfell, there will be misfortune in the North."

"Are you saying that Arthur is too young to be the Stark in Winterfell?"

"No. He is the only Stark available to be _the_ Stark."

A thought struck Robb. "No he isn't!" he said excitedly. "Dany can be the Stark in Winterfell! She is a Stark now and the child in her womb will be a Stark."

Maester Luwin looked stern. "That is impossible, my lord. She is not a Stark by blood. Your brother Arthur must be the Stark in Winterfell. You should ask Lord Umber to guide him. It'll greatly appease him and even improve House Stark and House Umber's relationship."

"Very well," said Robb, defeated. Maester Luwin was as usual, right. Better try and further befriend Lord Umber than antagonise him. Lord Umber still despised Daenerys and refused to speak whenever she was present. "I will put Ser Rodrik in charge of the men here. In case…in case anything should happen."

"A good decision my lord."

Robb stood up. "Lady Hornwood writes that the brigands on her lands are not just after the livestock and food. She wrote that there have been a few cases of ah, rape and murder. What are the chances that I will be killed?"

"Unlikely. You will have guards with you and though these criminals may be at the most skilled in hunting, they will not be disciplined or trained soldiers. May I ask why, my lord?"

Robb shrugged. "A passing thought." It was not. Dany had not won an ounce of approval from any of the northern lords (not even the Lady Lyanna Mormont for that matter) and she was to birth the Stark heir in a few weeks. If he was to die in battle, who would protect Dany and declare her child the Stark heir? The odds of her child as the heir were slim. Even if the truth of Daenerys's ancestry was at all revealed, her child being declared heir was not in her favour.

Stifling a sigh, Robb went inside the castle with the maester. The sun was half way up the sky, a portion of it still covered by the northern mountains. He would probably break his fast alone – again. To Robb's astonishment, when he entered the Great Hall, his siblings, Lady Lyanna and Dany were already there. All of them except Lady Lyanna Mormont were bleary-eyed and looked as if they all dragged themselves from their beds with the utmost reluctance.

"What are you doing here so early?" inquired Robb, amazed.

"We thought it would be nice to keep you company," spoke Dany, smiling. "We usually sleep in while you are busy in the solar. I miss breaking my fast with you, Robb. It's been a few weeks."

"I wake up at this time every morning," said Lady Lyanna flatly.

Arthur yawned loudly and rubbed his eyes. "I hope we do not have to wake up _this_ early every day." He glanced over at Rickon who had fallen asleep. "Perhaps I should ask a servant to give Rickon a loaf of bread to use as a soft pillow?" Arthur suggested mischievously.

"We shouldn't waste bread." Robb signalled for a servant to carry Rickon back to his rooms. "You know that Arthur. I hope you will not have the servants serve loaves of bread as pillows when I leave you in charge."

The smile disappeared from Daenerys's face. "You're leaving?" she asked.

Arthur's mouth dropped open. "Why? Are you going south too?"

"No," said Robb, taken back. "Yes I will be leaving, but it will only be for a short time and it's to Hornwood, not King's Landing."

"The Hornwood!" exclaimed Daenerys. "What possibly for?"

"Brigands are attacking the Hornwood," Robb explained, hungrily biting into a thick slice of bread lathered generously with freshly churned yellow butter. "The Lady of the Hornwood sent me a letter requesting aid. She mentioned the bandits were also raping and murdering her villagers. I thought it would be best to go to the Hornwood and sort out matters myself with two troops of men. I'll be leaving Arthur here as the Stark of Winterfell."

"Don't go!" pleaded Daenerys. "You might die!"

"Robb will be surrounded by loyal men," stated Gwenysse, prodding her bowl of porridge with her spoon. "I don't think he will die."

"He is the acting lord," Lady Lyanna added. "He should be riding off and aiding his bannermen, not cowering behind the walls of Winterfell. If I was home, I'd be riding to every village with my sister Jorelle to see if their defences are ready and they have enough food and firewood. No one has too much that may be seen as a worthy prize or too less that will send them to early deaths. It's enough for them to survive on. My family too. We don't feast like southroners do or drip in jewels or silk." She made a face. "Why waste money on excess food and jewels?" A smile replaced her grimace as she tapped the wooden figure of a bear that was secured around her neck by a piece of rope. "My uncle carved this for Dacey before he left for Castle Black," she said fondly. "Dacey gave it to me before I left."

"It's lovely," said Robb honestly.

"When will you leave?" inquired Daenerys.

"As soon as I have enough men. Probably in a day or two. Don't worry Dany – I will have Ser Rodrik in charge of defences and Theon will be here. He's a brilliant archer and can shoot any invader from the battlements. You will be safe here. All of you will be." He smiled at his wife and then at his siblings. "Besides, there's the crypts that can protect you," he said soothingly, squeezing Dany's hand.

"Come back to me soon," said Daenerys softly so Lady Lyanna couldn't hear or scoff at. "Alive and in one piece."

"I will," promised Robb. "The Hornwood problem will be dealt with swiftly. I'll be there and back before you know it."

* * *

 **I'm planning to write a chapter based on the Martell-Tyrell-Targaryen plotting, but I'm stuck on whose POV to write it in. Any suggestions? It doesn't have to be anyone new (not Aegon though - I already planned out his POV chapters).**

 **I'm letting you know now that I'm taking a short break from _The Dance of Spring_ , mostly due to uni work and a need to plot and look at something new that isn't Game of Thrones/ASOIAF related. I'm not abandoning this story - just putting it on halt for probably a few weeks (maybe shorter if I get bored of taking a break). **


	98. Steffon II

When his father kissed Lady Desmera on the lips, Steffon burst into applause – it was a dutiful clap, not a happy clap. The sound of applause faded quickly, even with Cassana, Shireen, Robert, Prince Orys, Princess Lyarra, the Seaworths, Lord and Lady Redwyne, their two sons and Lady Olenna Tyrell clapping together.

Steffon smiled at his lady stepmother as she and Father turned from the obese High Septon and looked at the small audience present. Father looked gloomy as if he was forced to attend a funeral; Lady Desmera's expression was one of fear and uncertainty. Who could blame her? She was married to the man who had his first wife arrested and her illegitimate children sent away. Sadness and apprehension twisted in Steffon's stomach like two snakes tied in a knot. He loved his father as a loyal son would, but sweet Myrcella and Tommen? Even in the Citadel and one of the motherhouses wouldn't have saved Myrcella and Tommen from a life time of ridicule and horror. Perhaps death spared them from endless misery.

"So!" said Lord Redwyne heartily as he attempted to be jolly. "The feast then?"

 _There is to be no feast_ , thought Steffon.

"There will be no feast," Father said grimly.

"What?" said Lady Olenna, tottering closer to him. "Speak up!"

Steffon stifled a laugh as Father glanced down solemnly at her. "There'll be no feast," he repeated with the faintest trace of irritation. "My brother the king has a feast almost every three days – what is the point of having a wedding feast?"

"Is my granddaughter not worthy of a wedding feast?" demanded Lady Olenna, narrowing her eyes. "With no wedding feast, bad luck will fall upon you and Lady Desmera. Is that what you want, Lord Baratheon? Do you want your wife to be an infertile woman? Is that it?"

Father glowered at her, grinding his teeth. "I have an heir," he said, nodding at Steffon. "I do not require another."

The Queen of Thorns sniffed. "Odd thing for a lord to say. I thought every man is desperate for a brood of bonny sons? Or do men prefer daughters now? When I was carrying my oaf son in my womb, do you know what my oaf husband did? He recited a list of names. _Mace, Alester, Garth, Mern, Lorence and Oswyn_. He told me afterwards that he wanted six sons bearing those names." She snickered. "He was quite disappointed when I birthed Janna and Mina instead." Her beady eyes fixed on Father again. "Surely you want Storm's End to remain in Baratheon hands for all eternity?" she said slyly. "More sons will help keep the Baratheon line-"

"The Baratheon succession has naught to do with feasts," Father cut in. "There will be no wedding feast tonight. If you feel the need to celebrate my lady, I'll not prevent you from attending the king's feast tonight. I have state matters to attend to, not a wedding feast."

"What will I do, my lord?" said Desmera timidly. Stannis looked at her. "Go and join the queen's ladies," he said shortly.

"This is no wedding!" declared Lady Olenna. "This is a business transaction!"

"Is that not what marriage is my lady?"

Steffon remained silent as his new step-great grandmother and his father still argued and bickered all the way from the castle sept to the courtyard. Steffon felt greatly relieved when he escaped to the library with his siblings.

"Can you believe Father's wedding started with an argument?" Cassana asked, the moment they arrived at the library.

"It didn't come as much of a surprise," said Steffon thoughtfully. "Father never likes feasts and as he had insisted on a small, private wedding, it is in his right to refuse to have a feast. The people of the Reach are probably not used to it. It will not surprise me if all Reach ladies have grand wedding celebrations."

"Did you see our new uncles?" said Shireen with a smile. "They could not cease fidgeting with their cloak clasps. More like children of six than men of twenty one don't you agree?"

Steffon laughed. "Lord Seaworth's sons were more well-behaved than them."

"Do you think Uncle Tyrion would be welcome at our weddings?"

"Yes," said Steffon confidently. "He is our uncle by blood and will always be an expected guest in our weddings." A lump formed in his throat as he thought of his own betrothed for the first time in days. It'd be at least five years since he will be a husband. Every day, when he trained with his cousins and brother and studied hard in the schoolroom, Lady Alyssa Arryn was playing with her dolls or singing and dancing with other young girls her age. Steffon had nothing against waiting a number of years. He was in no hurry to marry.

"…and I hope Lady Desmera is happy at Storm's End," Shireen was saying. "it'd be very sad if she hates it there. Devan told me that he overheard Father deciding that Lady Desmera will stay here in King's Landing with us until the king returns from the Vale. When the king comes back with the court from the Vale, our father will take a short respite and bring us all to Storm's End."

"He will?" said Steffon, surprised.

Shireen nodded. "He will need to show the storm lords their new lady."

Of course. "I hope you don't feel alone here," said Steffon honestly, "with both Cassana and I leaving for the Vale." It was a last minute decision. It was yesterday after breakfast when he and Cassana were summoned to Father's rooms and told to pack their bags for the journey to the Eyrie. "Both of you will represent House Baratheon of Storm's End at the Vale wedding," Father said sternly. "I expect that you two will be on your best behaviour at all times. There will be no wantonness, flirting or visiting the brothels." Steffon had nodded earnestly. As Father's heir, it was his duty to represent House Baratheon in good light.

"I'll be fine," said Shireen cheerfully. "I have books to occupy myself with and a lot of people to talk to. Do you know that Devan's staying here? It's so kind of him too stay at King's Landing when he has the chance to visit the Vale. I do not think he's been to the Vale before."

"That is kind of him," Steffon agreed. He exchanged sly looks with Cassana. It'd not taken them long to theorise that Devan Seaworth fancied Shireen. He was for most of the time, always lingering near her and Steffon once caught him sneaking a book from the library and delivering it to Shireen. Devan's eyes would oft be on Shireen too, especially when they were feasting.

"Cousin Lyanna will be back too," said Cassana helpfully.

"You must write to me," said Shireen, beaming. " _Both_ of you."

"Of course," said Cassana and Steffon in unison. "I will send two ravens a day," added Steffon, grinning at Shireen. "You must write to us too! I do not want to be lost and confused in court gossip when I come back."

* * *

"When's the last time you saw your home my lady?" Steffon asked Lady Alyssa Arryn who was riding quietly beside him.

Lady Alyssa looked thoughtful. "I don't remember the Eyrie my lord," she said, a golden curl falling over her blue eyes. "King's Landing was my home and then it was Storm's End. I remember very little about the Eyrie." She smiled shyly at him. "I suppose when we arrive there, I'll be as much of a stranger as you." Her words sounded careful and well-rehearsed. _Queen Catelyn probably helped her_ , thought Steffon. _She always wants happy matches for all of us_. "Surely not," Steffon replied, smiling back at Lady Alyssa. "You are the daughter of the Vale. I'm a stranger. An enemy even, back in the days of the First Men and early Andals."

"Do you think Sansa remembers me?"

"She is your sister my lady. Of course she remembers you." _Just as I will always remember Myrcella and Tommen, even if they were not my siblings in truth._ Steffon unintentionally began grinding his teeth. Did Father truly love justice more than the lives of two children?

"Lord Steffon!" Cley Cerwyn rode up to Steffon and Lady Alyssa. He beamed at the Arryn lady. "My lady," he said politely. "May I speak to Lord Steffon alone for a few minutes? I promise I will return him to you soon."

Lady Alyssa blushed and nodded obediently.

"I thought you'd be leaving for Castle Cerwyn," said Steffon flatly.

Cley laughed good-naturedly. "And miss out the fun? I am afraid my father had spoilt me a little too much, my lord. He wants me safe more than proving my um, warrior prowess in the North. Besides, King's Landing is the den of excitement is it not? I envy you my lord."

"My home is Storm's End, not King's Landing."

"We are friends, aren't we?" Cley Cerwyn went on as if he didn't hear Steffon's comment. _Not really_ , thought Steffon, wondering what the Cerwyn heir was up to. He was always unusually cheerful for a Northman, but to call another his friend – an odd and peculiar choice. Cley lowered his voice. "I want you to be a witness to my wedding, Steffon."

Out of all the scenarios Steffon imagined, he did not picture _that_. "What?"

"I want you to be a witness to my wedding," said Cley solemnly. "That is also a reason for why I am still at court. The lady's father readily gave permission – I'm afraid it is _my_ father who might not approve so quickly."

"You shouldn't be disloyal to your father," said Steffon instantly.

"It's not an act of disloyalty," Cley reassured him. "I'll never be treacherous to my father. It's just that…" He hesitated. "Due to Robb Stark's actions, southroners are no longer warmly welcome in the North. My father probably thinks I am here courting Lady Arya Stark, not falling in love with a southron lady. She is a lady of a noble house whose power is great and worthy to be allied with. Her only crime is that she was born south of the Neck."

"You are not betrothed are you?"

"By the old gods no! Not to anyone but the woman I love that is."

Steffon didn't feel particularly comforted. "Who are the other witnesses?"

"Theon Greyjoy," answered Cley promptly, "and Olyvar Frey. I thought it best not to ask one of the Starks in case some of the northern lords thought that it was their idea to marry me to Roslin."

"Roslin?" repeated Steffon. "You want to wed _Roslin_ Frey?"

"Well yes," said Cley impatiently. "How many Roslins do you know? Her father is willing to exempt my family from paying the toll every time we cross the Twins and he will be supplying Roslin with a rather generous dowry. I love my father as any son would, but he will always cower to the wish of physically bigger lords in a confrontation. If Greatjon Umber says it is a crime to wed southroners, my lord father will believe him and obey, even though it is Lord Stark who's our liege lord, not the Greatjon Umber."

"What if your father disinherits you?"

"He won't do that," said Cley confidently. "Will you be a witness?"

Father's warning echoed in Steffon's mind. _Is witnessing a clandestine wedding an act of misbehaviour?_ By the Seven, Steffon wasn't even close friends with Cley Cerwyn – acquaintances at the most. When Cley first joined Prince Orys's cluster of companions and friends, Steffon thought the prince accepted Cley to please his northern wife. Cley was a cheerful young man – more merry than any other man of the North that Steffon had met – and was admittedly enjoyable company, but it was still strange that Cley would seek out him, Steffon, to be a witness to his very secret wedding. _It is a sign of friendship_ , reflected Steffon. _It will be good for House Baratheon of Storm's End to have a northern ally._ He had been always told by his tutors to weigh the political value that a friendship could bring before giving any rash and wild promises.

"Why Theon Greyjoy?" Steffon couldn't help asking. Theon Greyjoy was quite a cocky and arrogant bastard (not a true bastard of course). He'd give coy looks to any women, highborn and lowborn alike, as if he was the king! The king of what? Bedding wenches? Unfortunately that honour belonged to King Robert.

"We made a pact," said Cley promptly. "We are both young men looking for ah, wives. My father is slow in arranging marriages – just look at my sister if you are wanting proof! – and Theon, well Theon claims that he'll be an old man with less teeth and no cock before Lord Stark gives him a bride."

Steffon frowned. "Wait, are you and Theon _abducting_ women?"

"By the gods no! Do you think of us as wildlings, Lord Steffon? Didn't I say that Lord Frey agreed to my marriage?" He hesitated briefly. "Theon fell in love with a um, another highborn lady. He might have approached the matter a little too um, proudly. The lady's father refused to even consider him as his good-son. I heard a rumour that the lady's father believes Theon deflowered his daughter."

"Did he?"

Cley shrugged. "Theon is Theon. If he did, he would have crowed to the world that he deflowered a highborn maiden. If he loved her and she him, he might not have slept with her. If they did make love, he might be discreet about it."

Steffon's frown deepened. "How is it that the court unaware of this? Gossip is always spreading like wildfire."

"Not many people are aware of it."

"That is evident, Lord Cley."

"Come now," implored Cley. "For a friend, Steffon. If you ever need a favour, I'd be happy to lend you a hand."

"Very well," said Steffon tentatively. "I will be a witness to your wedding – if it can be assured that my father does not find out."

* * *

"You did _what?_ " Cassana stared at Steffon, her mouth dropping wide open like a gaping fish. "When? Why?"

"It is useful to have a northern ally," answered Steffon.

Cassana snorted. "You are repeating the Grand Maester's words now?"

"He wouldn't take no for an answer. Besides, his bride's father gave the two of them permission to wed – Lord Frey even supplied his daughter with substantial dowry to prove he supports the marriage." He reached for his cup of ale. "Besides, if matters do go awry, even in the slightest, I won't be mentioned. That was…was my sole condition and Cley agreed to it. We did not have to bribe any septons for the marriage either. It happened last night. When we were at Castle Darry, five of us – Cley, Lady Roslin, Theon, Olyvar and I – snuck into the godswood during the feast. I guess Lord Darry did a good job hosting the feast."

"Lord Darry was very hospitable. What was a northern wedding like?"

"Very simple." Steffon paused to take a sip of ale. "Theon Greyjoy officiated the wedding as he was the only other Northman present. After Roslin was presented before the heart tree, Theon asked, 'who comes before the old gods this night?'. It is apparently part of the wedding ritual. Olyvar responded, 'Roslin of House Frey, comes here to be wed.' He also mentions something about her being grown and a trueborn and noble lady coming to be the blessing of the gods. He then asks who is claiming her and Cley says 'Cley, of House Cerwyn, heir to Cerwyn.' Olyvar then says he is Roslin's brother and he gives her to Cley. The wedding's over when the Lady Roslin says she takes Cley as her husband. Oh, and then they join hands and then kneel in front of the heart tree in a moment of silent prayer."

"Is that it?" said Cassana, surprised.

Steffon nodded. "The only similarity they have with our father's wedding's the cloaking part. We had to carry torches to the godswood too."

"The godswood at Castle Darry is so small! Are you sure you didn't get caught? I don't think Father will be pleased if he finds out…"

"He won't." Steffon suppressed his uncertainty with a tight smile. "Besides, if it is brought to light, I won't be mentioned, remember?"

Cassana didn't look convinced. "I believe more people are afraid of our father than Cley Cerwyn."

"Father doesn't employ spies," said Steffon defensively. "He doesn't believe it's justifiable to spy on people."

"No, but Allard and Matthos Seaworth are here."

Steffon glanced across the common room of the inn at the Seaworth brothers. They were sitting on benches closest to the doors and seemed to be having quite a deep conversation. The slices of crusty bread and meat (now probably cold) on their plates remained untouched. "They are here to keep an eye on Robert Arryn, not to watch us," Steffon decided, draining the rest of his ale in one gulp. "Father didn't want to risk Lady Arryn stealing her son back. He said he swore an oath to the late Lord Arryn to keep his son away from Lady Arryn." He took the chance to examine his surroundings as Cassana bit into her slice of bread.

During his few travels, Steffon had rarely rested at an inn before. It wasn't that Father disapproved of inns as he disapproved of brothels – it was just convenient to him to journey to the destined location rather than stay a night at an inn. Here in the inn at the crossroads, everyone Steffon looked at were courtiers. He was a little disappointed. When he heard that the king decided to rest for a while at the inn, he was excited at the prospect of eating in the company of merchants, dyers, farmers and townsfolk. It sounded queer, but Steffon was tired of listening to the same old gossip with the other courtiers.

Despite the lack of smallfolk and townsfolk present, the inn itself from the vast view outside to its cosy interior was still an interesting sight. Standing outside on the crossroads, there were so many options where to go. If west, Steffon could go and visit his late mother's family; if north, it would be to the homes of the solemn northern lords; but it was the eastern road that he, his royal cousins and the rest of the court would take early tomorrow morning.

The inn itself was large and contained numerous rooms, some small and with low, dusty garrets and others spacious and comfortable. Being the king's nephew, Steffon was given a large room. The common room – where Steffon and Cassana and the majority of the courtiers were resting, eating and talking now – was long and drafty, with a row of huge wooden kegs at one end and a massive fireplace at the other. In between were rows upon rows of benches. While the nobles sat and chatted, the innkeeper Masha busily drew beer from the kegs, watching her four to six serving girls and boys serve plates of food to the nobles.

"…Steffon?"

"What?" said Steffon vaguely.

"The Seaworths are not just here for that," said Cassana patiently. "Father also wants them to keep an eye on us. After what Mother did…" Her lips tightened. "It shouldn't be surprising that he is ah, overprotective of us. He doesn't want to risk our House falling into further disgrace."

Steffon didn't want to say anything about their mother's scandal. "I think I had enough food," he said, standing up. "I might go and rest for a while. I do not want to fall asleep climbing to the Eyrie. Early start tomorrow too. Will you stay here a little longer or do you want me to escort you to your chamber?"

"Too early to sleep," replied Cassana.

"Don't stay up too late," said Steffon automatically. Cassana laughed. "I will not, Brother," she said with a smile. "You don't have to worry about me."

 _I cannot help it_. "I will see you tomorrow morning then." Leaving Cassana with the other courtiers, Steffon retired to his room. _Am I being overprotective too?_ He wondered as settled on a plain chair and stared out the window. A cluster of grey, angry clouds were gathering together _. Why didn't Cassana want to retire? Is there a courtier she fancies? What if he is someone Father won't approve of?_ "Stop acting like an overprotective fool," Steffon reprimanded himself. "Cassana is your sister – just because of Mother's actions doesn't mean you should stop trusting her and everyone else in your family." He wondered if Hoster Tully, heir of Riverrun also had those protective brotherly thoughts in his mind. He had heard from Cassana (who in turn learnt from Princess Lyarra and some of the other ladies) that upon occasion, the fourteen year old Hoster would guard Melia and Rosaline zealously against unwanted suitors.

Mother must be forgotten; everyone must move on. Though Mother's disgrace would loom over Steffon indefinitely, that was no excuse for being guarded and a protective idiot. It was time to move forward and what better way to do that than climbing up a steep, enormous mountain to attend a wedding?

* * *

 **My break is over and I'm back :D Holidays is approaching in a few days and I definitely plan to write more of this story, start planning future stories and maybe even oneshots. I know this isn't the most interest chapter, but hopefully the next chapter will be more interesting :)**


	99. Luwin III

"There's no letter from Lord Robb today my lady," Maester Luwin said quietly, glancing up at Daenerys as she approached him in the Great Hall. Every morning, midday and evening, Lady Daenerys would inquire if there were any letters from Robb. It was what any lady wife would do, but it was Daenerys's concerned looks that worried Luwin.

Anxiety did not suit a pregnant woman and the last thing Winterfell needed at the moment was a hysterical and pregnant woman. _If not for the risks, I would've prescribed her a sleeping drought_ , thought Luwin as Daenerys continued to linger nearby, her thin, white fingers curling and uncurling nervously. "You should rest, my lady," Luwin advised, shuffling to the Great Hall's doors. "You are carrying an heir to Winterfell. Lord Robb will not be pleased if you lose your child."

"Oh, of course the child," said Daenerys crossly. "Is that all that everyone ever thinks about now? The child?"

"I am only concerned for your wellbeing and that of your child's, my lady."

Daenerys smiled. "You have always worried over me – over all of us, Maester. I am forever grateful for that."

"I am only doing my duty, my lady."

"As Robb is doing his."

Daenerys was silent for a moment. "Do you disapprove my marriage to Robb?" she asked suddenly.

Maester Luwin looked at her, startled by the question. Daenerys Stark had not shown any signs of regret when it came to her marriage…up to now. "It is not my place to approve or disapprove," he said carefully. "When you were a child, you'd once asked me if I am here to heal, or to advise the Lord of Winterfell."

"I don't remember that, Maester."

"You were a child, my lady. I will tell you now what I told you then: I look after the castle ravens, I heal and treat the wounded and sick and I advise anyone if it's my opinions and thoughts that is sought after."

"Am I not asking you for your advice, Maester?"

 _You are asking for my view on your marriage_. "Not everyone is pleased," Luwin said diplomatically, "but there will always be some who are delighted. Not all the lords would have been pleased if Robb had married Princess Lyanna. A couple of them would be asking themselves, 'why couldn't Robb Stark wed my daughter or my sister?'. Whoever Robb marries will always earn one lord's displeasure. If you do not mind me speaking bluntly my lady, should you not have gotten over your worries about your marriage by now?"

"How can I?" said Daenerys bitterly, "when my marriage's always mentioned – by Lyanna Mormont of all people! – with malice?"

"Northerners never forget," murmured Luwin, more to himself than to her. "It is something I have oft heard here."

Daenerys sighed gloomily. "I suppose I will go and lie down for an hour or two. If a letter from Robb does arrive, you will tell me will you not?" Luwin nodded. "I will the moment it comes," he promised. "Get some rest, my lady." As he began to head to the schoolroom, he kept a close eye on Daenerys. Good. She was walking back to her chambers. _She needs company_ , Luwin thought as he shuffled towards the schoolroom. _Proper company_. There was the Lady Alys Karstark, but for some reason, Daenerys did not seem keen to befriend her. Surely even a desperate lady would not be so…selective about her companions?

Luwin could not help but chuckle as he heard loud voices arguing from inside the Winterfell schoolroom. A noisy and sound debate in the morning was always a good sign. He remembered when the older boys and girls were still in the midst of their educational years – what arguments there were! Theon would always be insistent on dramatising the Ironborn view and exaggerating Ironborn victories; Jon Snow would usually be quieter but when it came to defending Northern pride, he would speak up. _There were all once here_ , Luwin reflected as his old and bony fingers curled around the doorknob. _I had taught all of them – did I fail as a tutor in educating them?_ He pushed open the door.

As of the last six months, Luwin had four pupils: Gwenysse, Arthur and Rickon and Lyanna Mormont. Today, Jojen and Meera Reed had joined them. They were also engaged in a fierce argument against Lyanna Mormont.

"…and using darts is an act of cowardice!" the Mormont girl was declaring, her arms folded in front of her chest.

"It most certainly is not," said Meera, looking offended. "While you go charging onto the field with a sword in hand, you risk dying just as much as your foe. With poisoned darts, you can kill your enemies from safe places such as behind a vast cluster of reeds or atop a tree. While you lead your men to their deaths, at least a few of mine will be alive."

"What can you possibly learn from poisoned darts?"

"Precision," responded Jojen, his green eyes fixed on Lyanna Mormont's. "How to make the poison. There are different types of poisons of course. Would you go stabbing sentries to death? At least with poisons, there is the chance of drugging them to sleep with darts. It is always good to capture prisoners too."

"Did you not have this discussion two days ago?" said Luwin, setting his pile of papers onto his table at the head of the schoolroom.

"We did Maester," said Jojen quietly, "but it seems Lady Lyanna here is quite a firm believer that poison is not as effective as a sword."

"Can I not have my own view on a matter?" said Lady Lyanna grumpily.

"You may," Luwin assured her, "but you do not need to defend that view every time someone opposes it. What if it is the king who opposes your view? Will you be obliged to argue with him?"

"You think it is better to remain silent and agree?"

Luwin smiled at her. Youth oft came with recklessness; age was accompanied by patience. "Would you not be happier alive than dead for treason, my lady?" He looked at the Reed siblings. "Will you two partake in today's lesson? Lady Lyanna, Gwenysse and Arthur will be revising their noble Houses. Rickon will be studying his numbers today." He watched Meera and Jojen glance at each other.

Jojen shrugged. "Why not? I admit, it has been a while since I studied the noble Houses of Westeros and their sigils and words."

"Very well." Luwin gestured for him and Meera to sit down as he unrolled the massive map that the children had filled out and corrected yesterday. Usually the maps he drew up were smaller, but this time when he drew out the map, he'd left enough room for the children to also write the House words and the sigils. It was a collaborative task – Luwin thought it would greatly benefit the children's skills at communication and cooperation.

Meera leant forward and studied the map. "House Rain?" she questioned.

"House _Reyne_ ," Arthur corrected her. "It's a noble House in the Westerlands. A red upright lion with a forked tail and with gold teeth and claws on a silver field," he added as if reciting it from a lesson, which he did. Luwin nodded. _It seems that Arthur needs to work on his letters now_ , he pondered. The penultimate Stark child enjoyed learning about the noble Houses; when it came to letters, Arthur's bright eyes would dim and his enthusiasm would melt away.

No, that wouldn't do at all.

Lord and Lady Stark would both be terribly disappointed when they return to discover Arthur unable to spell simple words correctly.

"Today you will write down the sigils and house words," Luwin instructed, "as many of them as you can. As all of you will be working on it together, I expect the map to be mostly filled by the end of the hour. Rickon, you and I will continue the sheet of numbers we worked on yesterday."

"I want to look at map too!" Rickon declared. "No numbers!"

"Another time," said Luwin patiently. He suppressed a wince as he slowly sat down next to a pouting Rickon. His bones were getting sorer these days when he walked around Winterfell, completing his usual duties. _Perhaps I'm in need of an assistant_. Would it be wise to hint the idea to Lord Stark? He remembered an old maester friend from long ago who had died some time ago, a Maester Cressen. He, Maester Cressen, had been a number of years older than Luwin and served as the maester of Storm's End for the majority of his long life. In the last few years of his life, he'd been assisted by a much younger maester who was now the maester of Storm's End. Dismissing the thoughts of having an assistant from his mind Luwin rapped the table with his quill. "Do you remember your numbers?"

Rickon frowned. "One, two, three, four," he said, counting his fingers, "five, six, seven, eight, nine and ten!" He grinned triumphantly.

"Very good," Luwin praised. A three year old child was a little young to begin a nobleman's education, but Lord Stark had insisted for his elder children to start a little earlier so Luwin continued with the rest of his progeny. "Now, do you recall how to write those numbers?"

"I practised last night," Rickon said defensively.

"Good. You must keep practising. Write the numbers thrice each Rickon. We'll then move onto other problems involving numbers."

After watching Rickon slowly and laboriously scrawl (more like draw) two of the numbers, Luwin turned his attention to the others. Thankfully there wasn't a huge outbreak of arguments between them, though they were not all working on the map as collaboratively as Luwin hoped. Gwenysse was working on the part of Dorne and the Crownlands by herself in silence; Lady Lyanna and Arthur had, as a pair, claimed the majority of the North and the Vale; and the Reeds were adding excess information to the crannogmen area. No one seemed to have attempted to fill in information for the Iron Islands, the Reach, the Riverlands and Stormlands and the Westerlands as of yet. Luwin said nothing as he continued watching all of them work. They still had plenty of time.

"…my sister said she mated with a bear once," Lady Lyanna was saying.

"A bear?" said Arthur, intrigued.

"Lady Lyanna," Luwin spoke. Everyone looked at him, some startled. "I do not think that is an appropriate topic of conversation," Luwin admonished. "If silence is a source of irritation for you, you may talk on subjects relating to the work that I have assigned you."

"Yes Maester," Arthur and Lady Lyanna chanted together.

"What is there to talk about regarding sigils and words?" Arthur complained.

"You are the Stark in Winterfell," said Luwin thoughtfully. "Do you know what _Winter is Coming_ means?"

"The oncoming winter," said Arthur promptly.

"That is one reason, Arthur," Luwin acceded. Now all the children – Arthur, the Reeds, Gwenysse, Lady Lyanna and Rickon – were listening to him, interested. "It is also words of warning and constant vigilance for the coming of winter. Here in the North, winter strikes us hardest and first. Winter always comes, and it won't always be gentle. All the winters in the past were short; the oncoming winter will be long and bitter. Winter's not even oncoming," he corrected himself.. "It's a few steps away from Winterfell's doorstep."

"A warning…" repeated Arthur attentively. "Do winters come unexpectedly?"

"It did before maesters learnt how to monitor the seasons. Sometimes autumn would last only a few months before winter sets in. Do any of you know who one of House Stark's Kings in the North ruled for the shortest period of time?"

"King Edwyn Stark?" guessed Gwenysse.

Luwin nodded. "Edwyn the Spring King, he was called. He wasn't born during spring time, mind you. He was given the appellation 'the Spring King' because his reign lasted from the first days of spring till the day before summer. According to one of my predecessors who had written a book about the Kings in the North, the Spring King's reign lasted for four months. His father's rule only surpassed his by another two months." He smiled, knowing he captured his students' attention. "I suspect you are all familiar with why the direwolf is House Stark's sigil?"

"The wolves have packs," said Arthur promptly. "Father said that Starks never abandon each other – especially in winter."

"We all have to work hard together too," added Gwenysse, her Stark grey eyes unusually expressionless, "in preparation for winter."

Luwin's smile widened. "See? There is plenty to discuss regarding House sigils and words. Didn't we just have an interesting conversation?"

Arthur brightened. "We can tell stories about the noble Houses! Old Nan used to tell us the _best_ stories!"

 _Old Nan_. Luwin's smile faded. When was the last time he went to see the lady? He had given her medicine a number of times, but had not seen her in quite some time. She apparently used to be a serving woman in her youth and then she came to nurse a Brandon Stark at Winterfell. Afterwards due to her advancing age, she remained at Winterfell and was more or less a storyteller to the Stark children. In the last six months, she lost the strength to knit and tell stories and rarely left her bed. It wouldn't be long now before she-

"I finished!" Rickon announced.

Leaving the older children talking quietly to each other, Luwin looked over at Rickon's numbers. "Better," Luwin acknowledged. "Much better Rickon." He then pointed at a few numbers that were drawn backwards. "Why don't you try those numbers again? Look at my numbers, and then look at yours."

"My three is the same as yours." Rickon pointed to his number three which he had drawn backwards. Luwin placed another piece of parchment on the table. He had prepared it earlier for Rickon. "Trace the numbers," Luwin told Rickon, "and then try and write the numbers again."

Rickon nodded slowly. "Yes Maester."

"Good. Keep working, Rickon." He watched Rickon obediently pick up his quill again and unhurriedly trace the numbers. Usually Rickon would be impulsive but not when it came to his lessons, unless it was escaping them. _He is quite like Arya_ , Luwin reflected. _Bright and clever in their favoured subjects but sullen and keen to be disruptive in areas that are foreign to them._ For Arya, her bane was sewing; for Rickon, it seemed to be anything to do with the schoolroom.

"Maester," spoke Lady Lyanna. "What is the tale behind my House's sigil?"

"Surely you'd know," Arthur said cheekily.

" _Arthur_ ," said Luwin warningly. He looked at Lady Lyanna Mormont. "There're a number of different versions," he said carefully. "Was there a bedtime tale that, ah, your lady mother told you about the Mormont bear?"

"I usually fall asleep listening to Alysane and Dacey's hunting stories."

The most popular version of the Mormont bear tale that Luwin knew was also a slightly…inappropriate tale for a young lady's ears. It was said that the founder of House Mormont was the bastard daughter of an Umber named Mors and some say, a wildling woman. That woman was said to have mated with a bear and gave birth to a litter of skinchangers. According to what a previous maester had jotted down on a scrap of parchment, many men liked to jest that _every_ Mormont was a bastard child of a man – or a Mormont woman – and a bear.

Luwin began, "It was said-" but broke off when the door banged open and one of the younger household guards ran in, his eyes coloured with fright. Luwin rose and frowned. "Lucan?"

"Word from Jullon!" the panting household guard managed to say. "An army is approaching! An army Maester!"

"How was an army not seen any earlier?" While Luwin's tone remained a little calm, his heart was pounding twice as fast. "From which direction?" If only Lord Umber was here! What a time for Lord Umber to be scouting the Wolfswood with some of his men! "Which sigil?" Luwin said more quietly, yet more alert.

"Jullon said there were no banners, Maester. No sigils."

Luwin's blood turned cold. No banners? No sigils? Was it a bandit army? There hadn't been a bandit army for…for decades. It would make more sense if it was a lord's army if the lord decided not to bring banners with him. He didn't have time to think of the most likely to rebel lords – there were too many. The only Houses that aren't against House Stark seemed to be Houses Mormont, Bolton, Manderly (perhaps), Cerwyn, Flint and hopefully Umber. _What if it is Lord Umber that is the one responsible? For all we know, he could be ordering his men to attack right this very moment?_ Luwin dismissed the thought almost as swiftly as he thought about it a mere second ago. Lord Umber would fight alongside his men and a household guard would notice him at once. If that wasn't all, Lord Umber would always fight under the fluttering banners of his House – a roaring and brown-haired giant on a flame red field, wearing a skin with broken chains. Besides, most of the Lord of Last Hearth's men were on his lands defending their homes from wildlings.

"Maester?"

"We must prepare for a siege," said Luwin, glancing at the children who were whispering excitedly to each other – well, Lady Lyanna and Arthur were. "To my knowledge, we do not have enough men to send out to battle the oncoming army. Preparing for siege will be best. All we can do is wait for Robb to return with his men." Only yesterday, the steward had inspected the food stores with him and it was still well-stocked for winter. Was it enough to last a siege _and_ winter? Luwin feared the answer. Sieges could last weeks, months and even years. The Starks of old had laid siege to the Dreadfort for two years – and were victorious. Even with the food stores well-stocked now, there was no guarantee that the army soon to arrive at Winterfell's doorstep would freeze to death or die of starvation waiting for the Winterfell household to surrender.

"What about Robb?" questioned Gwenysse.

Sending a raven would probably be impossible…but there was always a small chance Robb _would_ receive a raven.

"We should have half a dozen sentries and archers on the battlements at once, if not more," Lady Lyanna Mormont was saying importantly, her eyes glistening with excitement for probably the first time since her arrival at Winterfell. "Many people say that archery is weak compared to swords, but archers are essential in sieges. Archery is important in hunting meat too."

"Theon is our best archer," said Arthur tentatively. "He's not here though…"

"Winterfell has other fine archers," said Maester Luwin, more to himself than to Lady Lyanna and Arthur. He shuffled in front of the children and said calmly. "I am only saying this for your own safety: please remain inside the castle walls. I'm aware that this is your first siege and it might be…exciting, but it'll be dangerous, very dangerous, even for you take a stroll in the courtyard. Do you understand?"

All the children nodded, Lady Lyanna a little more reluctantly. "Keep working," said Maester Luwin, slowly trundling to the door. "I will come and check it soon. I will have a servant bring you your afternoon meal in about half an hour. If you're in need to leave the schoolroom, ask one of the guards here to accompany you. It applies to you too, Lady Lyanna," he added.

Lady Lyanna nodded obediently.

 _If only Lord Umber's here_ , thought Luwin, as he headed to his turret. _I hope one of the household guards informed Ser Rodrik. Hopefully he agrees that a siege is for the best in this situation._ Winterfell had no castellan; Ser Rodrik, Lord Umber and Luwin worked together to fill in the castellan's duties. In circumstances like this, Luwin wished Lord Stark had appointed a castellan. Even though Robb Stark was the acting lord, it wasn't the same as having a strong castellan experienced in the matters of defence. Ser Rodrik was the closest to a trusted castellan.

"Maester!"

Luwin's fingers froze in the direction of the maester turret door. He glanced at Lady Alys Karstark who had ran up to him, gasping for breath.

"What is it my lady?" said Luwin, maintaining patience.

"Lady Daenerys!" said Lady Alys, clutching her hip. Knowing the Karstark lady, she was not the type like Arya to go running around Winterfell for fun. "She is in her chambers, Maester. Her water broke! I think she is about to give birth!"

* * *

 **In the previous chapter, I deliberately wrote the Baratheons a little out of character as they are still recovering from what happened to Cersei, Myrcella and Tommen. Even though the Baratheon children do not love their mother as we would love our parents today, they did love Myrcella and Tommen and it is still a shock for them that they were born of incest, not their true siblings and are dead. After a break, it does take time to get back into writing the characters properly - I apologise if they seem a little OOC at the moment. I'll try my best to make them in character again.**

 **So...do you reckon Daenerys will have a child, twins, perhaps triplets (highly unlikely but still :D ) and would it/they be a girl or boy? :)**


	100. Arya V

The Eyrie was beautiful. After days of travelling through the dangerous paths, it was a relief to finally arrive at the Crescent Chamber. Not that the climbing was not enjoyable – in fact, Arya loved it and would be more than happy to climb and hike back down and back up to the Eyrie again.

After resting the night in the Gates of the Moon, a stout castle that stood at the foot of the Giant's Lance, Arya found herself a part of the first party who were led up the trail on mules to the first waycastle, Stone, by their guide, a tall, strapping young woman with short, coal-black hair and deep blue eyes called Mya Stone. _A bastard_ , Arya had pondered when her thoughts landed on Jon. The path to Stone was rather calming. The forest of trees on either side of the path rustled and had whispered to one another like old friends; the heat of the warm, morning sun had shined down and touched the back of everyone's necks; and the surprising quiet atmosphere of the first party was welcoming. The other people who were part of Arya's party were the king, who was given the fattest and sturdiest mule; his wife, the queen; Princes Orys and Ormund and their bands of friends; Princess Minisa, who had clung to her mother throughout the journey; Father, Mother and Bran of course (Bran travelled mostly with Prince Ormund); and an assortment of nobles with some sort of close relation to the king to have the apparent privilege to be a part of his royal entourage.

Arya wished she had more time to explore Stone. As it was decided to stop for a short respite there, mostly to eat and drink for a bit, Arya only had time to stare at the iron spikes crowned on the squat castle's stone walls and glimpse the two, fat round towers that rose high above the keep. It would've been exciting to have a quick look at the horses that were kept at Stone and maybe even walk around a little bit in the forest of trees. Ah well. After the brief rest at Stone, it was up onto a fresh mule and out again onto the second trail.

The trail to Snow, the second waycastle, was steeper than the first. It was also less relaxing. Unlike Stone that was right in sight, Snow, consisting of one timbre keep, a stable and a single fortified tower, was hidden into Giant's Lance. The trip from Stone to Snow wasn't the most terrifying or treacherous though.

"Beautiful isn't it?" Arya almost jumped as Father walked quietly up to her, his grey eyes brooding with memories. He looked more tired than usual – probably a result of all that travelling – but he still gave Arya a warm smile. "I have not come here in years," Father continued, his gaze moving from Arya to the seven towers that encircled a garden. "I used to spar there with Robert." He chuckled. "He once tried to teach me to wield a warhammer there. Come." He headed into the garden. "I have something to show you." Curious, Arya followed him. What could he have hidden in a garden that would be of interest to her?

Father studied a stone bench and gestured for Arya to look at it. Arya did. The back of the bench was carved with the Arryn sigil as expected. Father pointed to the frozen crack near the edge of the bench. "That was what Robert did when we first sparred," Father explained with a reminiscent smile. "He swung his hammer at me. I dodged and he swung down on the bench."

"Is that when you and the king became friends?" inquired Arya.

"Perhaps," Father acceded. "Maybe. This garden was meant to be a godswood, but no weirwood heart tree would take root in the soil. It is a good training place though, you know, if you intend to keep practising."

Arya's heart leapt with hope. "I can miss the jousting and melees?"

"If you can find a sparring partner."

"Lyarra told me she sent a letter to Syrio," said Arya tentatively. "She asked for him to come here to meet me for us to continue my water dancing training." She rushed on as Father's forehead creased into the all too familiar frown. "I know it was wrong of me to keep it a secret from you, but I didn't want you to send Syrio back to Braavos…" Her voice trailed off.

"I understand," said Father softly. "Why would you think I would send Syrio to Braavos once he arrives here?"

Arya mumbled. "Because you want me to be a proper lady."

Father sat down on the stone bench and gestured for Arya to sit down next to him. "What do you mean by proper lady?" he asked.

Arya looked at him, surprised. "Perfect at embroidery." She scowled. "Polite all the time, dreaming about knights, princes and babies." She shuddered. "That isn't me," she said bluntly. "I tried, Father. I really did, but I can't be a proper lady."

"A proper southron lady," Father corrected, again to Arya's astonishment. "As for being a proper lady, do you know how hard my father tried to force your aunt into behaving like one? It took many arguments and by the end, he still failed. It's been said that you look like my late sister. You don't only look like her, but you're like her in spirit too."

"I know." Arya felt slightly uncomfortable and confused. "What does that have to do with Syrio and water dancing?"

"It doesn't really, does it?" Father laughed, shaking his head. "Being back here and all…" He stood up. "Your mother said she wants to talk to you later. Maybe at the welcome feast. Thought to let you know. As for Syrio, if he appears here, I will not stop him from tutoring you."

"I can keep learning from him? Even when I become a woman?" Arya was only a number of months short of her thirteenth name day yet she heard that girls can have their first flowering a month or two after their _twelfth_ name day.

Father seemed to consider it. "We will see," he said finally. "Now I'm expected in the High Hall. Don't go running around looking for trouble. We are both guests here Arya." A twinkle appeared in his grey eyes before he turned and headed to the High Hall doors, leaving Arya alone in the garden.

* * *

Arya did not stay in the garden for long. The moment she caught sight of a few noble girls strolling leisurely into the garden, she sprang up from the bench like a cat and sprinted away, hoping the girls didn't see her.

 _Maybe I should go to the melee_ , thought Arya, slowing down from a sprint to a light run _. I want to see the sky cells, but I do not think the Vale guards will think to allow a guest to see their cells._ It was a disappointment as she had once heard that the Arryns kept the only dungeons in the Seven Kingdoms where their prisoners were welcome to escape at will – by jumping to their deaths. Many prisoners had been driven mad by the cold and howling wind had apparently chosen death.

Before Arya turned around, a thought struck her.

 _The Moon Door._

"The Vale has no executioner," Arya murmured to herself. In the North, it was always said that the one who gave the sentence swings the sword. In the south – in King's Landing at least – there was a royal executioner. Now keen to glimpse at least a little of the infamous Moon Door, Arya set off for the High Hall. It was late afternoon; the start of the jousting tournament. By now the High Hall should be a vacant area save a few servants. That was what Arya assumed. Since she arrived at King's Landing, she was forced to attend a number of tourneys. She escaped in a couple of them to explore the Red Keep and realised that most of the household and court would be watching the tournament, not lingering in the castle. Surely it would be the same here in the Eyrie!

 _Quiet as a shadow._

Creeping on her toes like a cat, Arya moved stealthily and calmly into the High Hall without making one sound. She stopped near the High Hall doors and looked around. _Good._ _No one in sight._ Resuming her sneaky walk, Arya crept closer to the High Hall doors.

"Where are you going, my lady?"

Arya froze, her right foot about to step down on the next step. One of the Vale guards was looking down at her kindly from his place next to the door.

"The tournament is over there," the guard said, pointing to where a couple of lords and ladies were hurrying to.

"Oh…of course," said Arya, recovering quickly. "I was just…looking for my lord father, Lord Stark."

"Lord Stark is already at the tournament my lady," said the guard, still smiling benevolently at her, "as is Lady Stark. The jousting tourney is to begin soon. You don't want to miss a minute of it now, do you?"

"What about my brother Bran?"

"I'm certain Lord Bran will be at the tourney too my lady. There is no one in the High Hall but the servants."

Stifling a sigh, Arya turned and walked away. Clearly the guard wasn't going to permit her entry to the High Hall. Perhaps it was a Vale custom that the High Hall was to remain closed to guests during tournaments. An odd custom, but it should still be respected. Readying herself for hours of boredom, Arya slowly headed to the tourney grounds. Arya only took a few steps before she caught sight of a door that was slightly ajar.

Could it be the servants' door to the High Hall?

Captured by curiosity, Arya edged towards the small, ordinary door, careful to avoid the eye of any watchful guards or hurrying lords. _If that Vale guard sees me creeping through the servants' door, he will know something is up_. It might even be a night in the sky cells. Arya shuddered. She desired to see the sky cells but didn't want to spend the night there as a prisoner. She cautiously pulled the door a little more open and slipped in.

It was dark.

Arya knew instantly that it wasn't the servant passage to the High Hall. No one could hold a dozen dishes and walk in the dark. She reached out in an attempt to touch the walls. The stone walls were damp. Arya gingerly took another step and then another, wary of stairs. _If I fall and break my neck, no one will find me_. Maybe one of the servants or someone who knew the Eyrie extremely well would find at the most, her rotting remains days, weeks or months after her accident.

 _Be calm_ , Arya silently snapped at herself as her heart began to pound. _Be calm as still water. Strong as a bear. Fierce as a wolverine._ She felt her heart slow down to a steady beat as she continued making her way through the dark passage, both her hands constantly grasping at the damp walls for safety and oddly enough, for a sense of comfort.

 _Why am I frightened?_ Arya couldn't help wonder. She willingly walked through the door – she could just as easily walk out. It wasn't as if the door slammed iron-shut behind her. As if reminding her that she could still leave, a cold draft swiftly breezed through the slightly ajar door and prodded Arya in the back of her neck. Arya shivered. "Winter is coming," she muttered on impulse. It was actually more like winter was at Winterfell's doorstep.

Taking a deep breath. Arya continued walking through the dark passage. Over time, her eyes adjusted to the blackness. When the passage came to an end in the form of another small, plain door, Arya did not hesitate. She silently pushed what she hoped was the door and cautiously entered, alert for stairs. Through another dark passage Arya walked steadily, repeating Syrio's words in her mind.

 _Quiet as a shadow._

 _Calm as still water._

 _Strong as a bear._

 _Fierce as a wolverine._

Arya's heart skipped a beat when she heard the sound of distant voices. More determined than ever, she crept closer, hoping to identify the voices. Was it at all possible for her to be in a secret passage _under_ the High Hall? During the passage, there were no steps descending or ascending, but Arya did feel like she was on a small descending slope a few times during the long walk.

"…this is a terrible idea," one of the voices was saying. "What if someone finds the door? It's not exactly inconspicuous." A woman, Arya realised.

"A servant's door," answered another voice in a calm, familiar tone. "No one of noble rank will pay much attention to it. Besides, there is the tourney that will be starting in a minute or so. For months, I had my little birds spread the word that this tourney will be the grandest tourney in all of Westeros."

There was a sharp laugh. "Every lord claims his tourney is the grandest one in all of Westeros. My oaf of a son said the Highgarden tourney was the grandest."

"Have you heard about the winner's prize?"

"Forty thousand golden dragons I suppose?"

"Thirty thousand actually, but the champion may also ask the king for a favour. Say if it is the squire's melee, the king would knight the champion himself. Quite an honour do you not think?"

"Hmmph. Loras is furious he cannot be here today."

Arya shuddered as she heard a high-pitched titter. "Now, now my lady. He has a imperative role to play in our game. Besides, isn't it much more merciful for the Knight of Flowers to be away from here? We are both well aware of the…relationship between the Knight of Flowers and Lord Renly."

"And you trust the Viper to secure King's Landing for the king?"

"He is a man who will always crave vengeance, as we both know." There was a second titter. "Vengeance is the prize for the Viper – he will do anything to grab it. A pity the Old Lion is dead, but there is always the Mountain That Rides. Besides, I believe the Viper will willingly secure King's Landing for the king as he is family. You will do everything for family will you not?"

 _Wouldn't anyone?_ Arya could not help think. She shifted to a more comfortable position as she settled down to listen further. The Viper must be the Red Viper of Dorne, the smirking man who was bold enough to bring his paramour to court. It was apparently a scandal. There was no need to guess who the Knight of Flowers and the Mountain That Rides were – they were obviously Ser Loras Tyrell, a man whom the other girls always gush about and the terrifying Ser Gregor Clegane. It was odd for the two men to appear in one conversation. Arya flattened herself to the wall and pressed her right ear against it in an attempt to hear more. Arya was not one for eavesdropping (she had only eavesdropped thrice in her life, this one being the fourth), but what the two people were saying, it had sounded much too important to creep away from.

Who does that male voice belong to?

"…and the Stormlands?" The woman was speaking again.

"They will be subdued once King's Landing is taken. With Dorne and Reach in unity, the Stormlands will not last very long."

"Hmmph. Last time there was a war in Westeros with the Reach and Dorne on the same side, the Stormlands did not yield thanks to a lowborn smuggler."

"Ah, but it was just the Reach alone against the Stormlands, was it not? To my knowledge, the Dornish were fighting at the Trident with the dragon's forces, or am I wrong? We have set the pieces on the cyvasse board a long time ago, and the game can finally begin. It is a pity Prince Doran is not alive."

The woman's voice sounded scornful. "You trust the daughter?"

There was a pause. "She is much like the Viper. Hot-headed, craving revenge. I believe if she did not wish to aid the restoration, she would've already stated that Dorne will embark on a strong friendship with the stags. The Red Viper just told us via raven that the Princess of Dorne has her soldiers lined up and ready. She is an ally of our cause, as her father was."

A little line of dust danced its way under Arya's nose. Arya sneezed. Almost at once, she looked around, alarmed. Silence had entered the conversation. Readied to run, Arya lingered nervously. Hearing the soft murmurs augment precariously, Arya bolted like the cats she'd often tried to catch in Winterfell _. Quiet as a shadow,_ Arya reminded herself as she sprinted through the dark passage. Her lungs were burning with air yet her lips moved as she continued reciting Syrio's words.

 _Quiet as a shadow._

 _Calm as still water._

 _Strong as a bear._

 _Fierce as a wolverine._

 _Run!_

Running through the passage felt like forever but Arya eventually pushed her way through the door and burst out of the passage. She was instantly blinded by the bright afternoon light. Squinting like a half-blind cripple, Arya staggered from the door and headed in the direction of the tourney. Father…she must tell Father everything she heard…

The sound of applause rumbled like the thundering hooves of a dozen or more horses as Arya approached the canopied stands. She craned her neck as she tried to locate Father. Usually he'd be seated near the king, but not today. Arya slowed down and looked around more carefully. There were hundreds, no, _thousands_ of spectators and Father could be anywhere.

Almost desperate, Arya's grey eyes darted this way and that until they found a target: Cley Cerwyn. Though she still hadn't warmed up to him as a friend of sort, Cley was the closest recognisable and familiar person there. Arya quickly ran up to the Cerwyn heir as he was putting on his armour for the joust.

"Lady Arya," said Cley, smiling at her. "A pleasure to see you again. We haven't spoken since we left King's Landing."

You were the one running around with Theon all day. "Do you know where my father is, Cley?" said Arya impatiently.

"Over there my lady." He pointed at another jousting ground. "Lady Arryn had decided to hold the squire's melee concurrently with the jousting tourney. Your brother Bran will be entering and Lord and Lady Stark have already gone over to watch." Cley cracked a grin. "Much more interesting than watching the joust here, eh? What about you, Lady Arya? Melee or joust?"

"What?" said Arya, taken back. She hadn't considered participating in either of them due to a lack of experience in both. "If I have to choose, I guess I'd take part in the melee…?"

Cley laughed. "Oh, my apologies! I meant which one will you watch?"

Arya rolled her eyes. "Probably neither." She then wished him luck in his joust and hurried to the melee area. It was easy to spot Father; there were not as many spectators for the melee as there were for the joust. Father and Mother sat on the seats closest to the melee grounds and next to them was Prince Orys Baratheon, who had probably decided to watch his younger brother spar instead of sitting in the jousting stands as a jousting watcher.

Without hesitation, Arya plunged herself into the crowd of spectators who did not manage to secure seats. Mumbling apologies, Arya squeezed her way through to the front row. Huffing a sigh, she ran her thin fingers through her hair. It was a tangled mess – almost like a bird's nest. It was no help that she was still attired in her old, yet comfortable riding clothes. Shrugging that thought aside, Arya ran up to Father, brushing away the inquisitive glances from her good-brother Orys and probably a dozen curious spectators.

"Arya!" Father exclaimed, immediately moving to make room for her. He then lowered his voice. "I thought you had plans to miss to joust and melee."

"There's a plot," Arya whispered breathlessly, careful not to be overheard. "A plot that will probably have people killed!"

Father was smiling at Bran who was walking onto the melee field in shiny new armour and an equally new sword in hand. He then frowned at Arya. "A plot that involves people dying? Were you eavesdropping, Arya?"

"Well…no…and yes," Arya admitted. "It somehow involves the Mountain That Rides, the Knight of Flowers and the Red Viper." She bit her lip in thought. "There were two voices. One was a woman and the other a man. He sounded familiar but I can't place who it is…"

Father sighed, his eyes returning to Bran who was facing his first opponent, a Tyrell boy who was taller than Bran by half a head. "You should not be following people about and spying on them. Perhaps you misunderstood them. The Knight of Flowers – Ser Loras – might want the Red Viper dead in the joust. They're both equally skilled in jousting and it is only natural for them to wish the other defeat in this jousting tourney." His expression clouded to worry as the steel swords in the hands of the squires began their song of clashing and clanging.

Arya watched Bran fight. He was pretty good considering his height and build. Then again, he practised sparring every day with Ser Barristan the Bold. "I know what I heard," she said stubbornly to her father. "One had called the other-" She broke off with a gasp as she watched another squire turn and swing his hammer right to the back of Bran's head.

* * *

 **I would've liked it better to have Arya eavesdropping on the conversation in King's Landing as the Red Keep is more likely to have secret passages familiar to certain people, but I assumed the Eyrie would have unused or ignored passages too. I forgot to ask you guys something from the last chapter - what girl and boy names do you want Daenerys's child/children to be? :) I looked at House Stark's family tree and there are so many awesome names to choose from that I can't decide so I thought to ask you readers for your name choice/s! :D**


	101. Eddard XV

Everything was a blur.

One minute Ned was sitting under a canopy at the melee stands; the next he'd found himself on the melee field at an unconscious Bran's side. Ned wretched off the helm and gently shook Bran's shoulders, praying he wasn't dead. "Fetch me a maester!" Ned heard himself shout. " _FETCH ME A MAESTER!_ " His fingers brushed through Bran's thick dark hair. When Ned glanced down at his fingers, he noticed they were red and sticky with blood.

Bran's blood.

" _A MAESTER!_ " Ned bellowed at the crowd of spectators. " _SOMEONE FETCH ME A MAESTER! NOW!_ " He almost jumped when he felt someone touch his arm.

Ashara.

"Maester Colemon is coming," Ashara said softly, her violet eyes fearful and no doubt intensified with grave concern. "He is coming. Bran will be fine." She didn't sound fully certain. "Bran will be fine," she repeated.

Ned stared at Bran's pale, serene face caked with sweat. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he pulled out his dagger and placed the blade against Bran's lips. It came as a great relief when thin puffs of steam fogged up against the gleaming blade. _He is alive_. "Bran is alive," Ned said aloud to reassure himself. He looked up at the clear sky. The old gods were watching over Bran. Ned wasn't a fully devout man as say a previous Lord Cerwyn, yet at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to run and kneel in front of a heart tree to pray for Bran's safe recovery.

"Is he still alive?" Arya appeared, her voice shaky. "Is Bran alive?"

"Please make way! Make way!" A thin, nervous-looking man with too little hair, quite a lot of neck and garbed in grey approached, his heavy chinking. Taking one look at Bran, the maester announced, "Unconscious, but he will live." His greyish-blue eyes met Ned's. "I will bandage his head," the maester told him, "to stop the bleeding. Apart from that, all we can do is wait for him to wake up."

"How long will it take?" asked Ned, lifting Bran's head for the maester to wrap a bandage around the wound.

"It depends, my lord," answered the maester truthfully. "Some may wake up in two weeks and other times it lasts a month. All we can do is pray the gods will be merciful and save your son, my lord." He paused momentarily. "It will be in your son's best interests if he remains here in the Eyrie, until maybe after he wakes up and is fully recovered. The journey to King's Landing will be strenuous – it might cost your son much-needed recovery days my lord. I will ensure your son will be comfortable and settled in guest chambers here."

"He will not return to King's Landing," said Ned tightly. "Once he is awake and fully recovers, I'll be taking him home to Winterfell."

The maester blinked. "I…I see, Lord Stark." He finished wrapping the bandage around Bran's head. Ned stood up, Bran in his arms. "The melee can resume once I'm gone," he muttered to his good-son Prince Orys, wishing he hadn't consented to Bran's request to participate in the melee. _I'm a fool for allowing him to fight. I should have told him no_. Bran was a good boy – he would have complied to Ned's answer without much protest. Ned sped up his stride to the castle, Ashara, Arya and the Eyrie maester hurrying after him.

How could this have happened? Everything was running smoothly, ready for a long winter when disaster upon disaster suddenly struck House Stark. Robb had married Daenerys in secret, Lyarra's betrothal to Domeric was forcibly broken in order for Lyarra to wed Orys Baratheon, Ned had to return to his former position of Master of Laws, Arya had to attend court against her will, Robb was now in the Hornwood fighting brigands and Jon missing or possibly dead…and now Bran in a state of unconsciousness for up to a month.

 _What could I have possibly done wrong?_

* * *

"Lord Stark?" said a tentative voice.

Pushing his bowl of spiced potatoes – now potato mash – away from him, Ned looked up. Standing in front of him nervously was a young boy who looked a year or two older than Bran. He was in silks of green, the golden Tyrell rose blazing on his breast. Under his brown eyes were bruises and light and dark scratches most likely from the melee.

"Yes?" said Ned warily. "And you are?"

"I am Lucas Tyrell my lord," said the boy timidly. "I was the one who'd injured your son Lord Brandon in the melee earlier today. My sincere apologies my lord. I didn't mean to hit him so hard with my warhammer." Before Ned could answer, Lucas Tyrell gabbled on. "My weapon of choice would usually be the sword but it was my father's uncle Lord Mace Tyrell insisted I try the warhammer today. I had not practised with the warhammer in quite some time and I underestimated the strength of the warhammer. My sincere apologies my lord! I truly didn't mean to hurt Lord Brandon to such an extent-" Ned raised his hand to silence him. "It was a melee," Ned said tightly. "I am thankful you did not kill Bran."

"I never would've my lord!" squeaked the frightened Tyrell boy.

"I thank the old gods and new that your warhammer was blunt. If it was sharp, I would have lost a son. What was done, is done. All is forgiven."

Lucas Tyrell beamed, relief written all over his bruised face. "Thank you, Lord Stark!" He even bowed a little. "Thank you!"

Ned nodded. "There are not many young um, men like you who would offer an apology for injuries done in melees. Go and enjoy the feast, Lucas." He went back to prodding his spiced potatoes. Worrying about Bran gnawed at Ned's stomach as a dog would gnaw at a bone.

"I can't stop thinking about Bran."

Ned glanced up and saw Arya who sat opposite him, poking her plate of meat and other Vale delicacies. "I can't stop thinking about Bran," Arya said again. "He is unconscious and here we are, _feasting_." She spat the last word as if it was a foul poison. "Stupid," she muttered, her eyes darkening. "So stupid."

"We are guests here," Ned told her. "It will be rude if all of us refuse to attend a feast hosted by Lady Arryn. She will view our absence as a slight – we don't need a slighted Great House as our enemy, especially House Arryn. The Vale and North have a good relationship, particularly in the last few centuries."

Arya flared up. "So Bran's life means nothing compared to stupid _politics?_ "

Other nearby lords glanced in her direction out of curiosity.

Ned frowned at Arya. "Bran is as much my son as he is your brother," he said a little more coldly than he intended. "Of course I care for him and wish I am at his side rather than feasting. However, I am here to represent our House; Ashara's in Bran's chambers, tending to him. We will both be at the wedding tomorrow. The day after, I will be looking after Bran." He hesitated. "I received a message earlier, from Syrio Forel," he said reluctantly. Immediately, Arya brightened up. "He was delayed at Gulltown," Ned explained. "Apparently there were a lot of Essosi trade and merchant ships landing at Gulltown for the wedding festivities and they held priority over sword masters. Syrio is at the Bloody Gate now and will – if all goes well – arrive here in a day or two."

Arya smiled, but her happy beam didn't reach her eyes. "I heard the winner of the squire's melee was Lady Waynwood's grandson," she said casually.

"Aye." Ned forced himself to take a bite of potato. "He was just knighted by the king himself. A great honour."

"What else did he win?"

"He asked the king for permission to dance with his niece, Lady Cassana." Ned suspected that if Princess Lyanna was still unmarried or the Princess Minisa a bit older, Lady Waynwood's grandson would ask Robert for permission to dance or even court one of those girls. "The king granted it with a laugh, so I heard."

"There will be another squire's melee." Ned looked at Arya sharply. "Perhaps I can join as a…a mystery…squire."

"I thought you hated stories of knights," said Ned dryly.

"I want to fight!" said Arya hotly. She glared at Lucas Tyrell who seemed to be asking a noble maiden to dance. "I want to fight _him_ for what he did to Bran!" She stabbed a freshly baked bun with her knife. Berry juice squirted out of the bun and all over Arya's clenched fingers.

"No." Ned didn't even need to consider his answer. "Water dancing with Syrio is one matter, but fighting in a melee is out of the question. Besides, I do not think you are allowed to fight due to your gender Arya."

"That's stupid! Lady Mormont fought in a melee before! She's a woman!"

"For your _own safety_ , you will not fight in any melee or tourney here. If you do not want to watch the melees, contests and tourneys, you may visit Bran."

Arya huffed and pouted. "Fine. May I be excused?"

Ned nodded. "Try and sleep, Arya. We had a shock today, but we do need to be up early tomorrow morning for the wedding."

"Weddings, weddings, weddings." Ned heard Arya mumble irritably. "All that I am allowed to do is attend weddings these days."

Shaking his head, Ned stood up. It was time for a walk. Quietly Ned slipped out from the High Hall and stood outside, breathing in the fresh evening air. It'd been years since he breathed in Vale air. In fact, the last time he stood outside the High Hall alone was when he'd learnt of his father and brother's murders. Instinctively, he had wanted to run to a godswood; the Vale had no godswood. He knew then – even before Robert stormed around, declaring war – that blood would be spilled. _Why do I have that feeling now?_ Ned contemplated, staring at the full moon. _There is peace in the majority of the Seven Kingdoms and Robert's on the Iron Throne, not a mad Targaryen king._ The Westerlands wasn't on the best terms with Robert but they wouldn't be strong enough to launch a war on their own against the rest of a united Westeros – Ser Kevan Lannister was aware of that. Yet…

Ned shook his head. He was over thinking again. Lately, he found himself over thinking quite a bit about the tiniest of matters.

Surely one would be assaulted with nostalgia – both bad and good – when one returns to his foster home; Ned was only hit with the bad memories. He did recall the time he and Robert sparred, but that was an ordinary memory. It felt good to remember it upon arrival, but now…it was common.

"Ah, Ned. Thought I'd find you here." Ned smiled faintly as Robert lumbered to his side, wine goblet in hand.

"Does Catelyn know?" Ned nodded at the goblet.

Robert snorted. "It's a celebration Ned! Who am I? Baelor the Blessed? I wager that even blessed Baelor had a drink from time to time." He snickered and drank some more wine. "It's been a while, eh? The two of us, back here in the Eyrie. Did you see Jon Arryn's son? He looks like he could be blown away by the next strong gust of wind. Puny child. I was twice his size when I was his age."

"Aye." Ned's smile broadened. "You were much stronger too."

"I was thinking of appointing a new Warden of the East."

Ned stared at his old friend, startled. "The Arryns have always been Warden of the East. The title goes with the domain. Besides, we're the guests here. You'll be insulting the Arryns in giving the title to another. Robert Arryn is Jon's son. After what Jon had done for us all those years ago-"

"Yes, yes," Robert cut in, "but a nine year old boy is no war leader or soldier no matter how much training Stannis subjects him to."

" _War?_ " Ned was astonished. "You believe there will be a _war?_ "

"Raven from Stannis earlier." Robert drained the rest of his wine. "Apparently one of our cousins sent word from the Stormlands that there's a Dornish army on the border. Distrustful don't you think? It is probably a jousting tourney or spear practice. Stannis should learn to be less distrustful."

"If you think Stannis is lying, why are you considering giving another the title of Warden of the East?"

Robert shrugged. "It was suggested to me and it made sense."

A chill prickled the back of Ned's neck. What was it that Arya said earlier? She heard two individuals plotting? "Who suggested it to you?"

Robert shifted irritably. "Seven Hells, Ned! Why does it matter? It was Varys if you must know. For a eunuch, he does give good advice."

"Give it time," Ned advised. "Robert Arryn may grow into a war commander fit to be Warden of the East. Robert Arryn has already been Warden of the East for a number of years. It will be cruel to take the title from him, my king."

" _My king?_ " Robert guffawed. "Bah, no titles between us Ned. I told you that. We are brothers after all." He stroked his wild, thick beard thoughtfully. "I'll think on the Robert Arryn matter," he decided at last. He pointed a thick finger at Ned. "No promises though." His expression softened. "I heard about Bran. Poor lad. How is he now? Resting?"

"Unconscious. Ashara is watching over him. She hadn't left his side all day."

"He'll wake up soon," Robert said confidently. "You Starks are strong. If you all can survive the harshest of winters, Bran Stark can survive a head injury that he received in a squire's melee."

* * *

Bran looked so peaceful, his eyes closed shut and his expression serene. It was as if he was in deep sleep, not in a state of unconsciousness. Before the sun began its slow ascent to the sky, Ned was sitting quietly beside Bran's bed, his grey eyes fixed gravely on his second son.

"How is he?" Ashara appeared at Ned's side.

"Still unconscious," Ned responded. "What is that?" He pointed at the bowl on the table next to the bed.

Ashara looked surprised. "Honey, water and herb mixture. It'll keep Bran alive. The maester mixed it for him yesterday. It is an easy concoction. We do not have to ask Maester Colemon to make it for us every day. We can make the mixture by ourselves." Ned nodded. His mind had been cloudy with worried thoughts of late; Robb in the Hornwood, Lyarra's pregnancy, Arya being Arya, Bran's injury, Jon (if he was even alive), the younger children…the thought of that mixture must have slipped his mind.

"…when you leave for Winterfell with Arya," Ashara was murmuring.

"What?" said Ned hastily.

"I will stay here with Bran," Ashara repeated, "and return to Winterfell the day he is well again. The North needs you."

"No," said Ned firmly. "Our son needs his mother _and_ father when he wakes up, Ashara. Besides, what will my bannermen think if I return and you are not at my side? Do you remember what happened when you were at Dorne for two years, if not a little more?"

Ashara flinched. "I rather not remember that," she said stiffly, her lips forming a straight line. "Either way, whatever we choose to do, your northern lords won't be pleased at the outcome. Lord Umber would probably demand to know why it wasn't possible for us to leave for Winterfell with Bran in a litter _after_ he says it's shameful for Bran to be in a litter." Her eyes shone with anger. "What will please him? Our unconscious son strapped to a horse?"

Ned was silent. What the Greatjon would expect would infuriate _him_ , let alone Ashara. Ned preferred his bannermen to speak their minds as opposed to flattery like the southron lords, but at times when mercy and kindness ruled supreme, it was not the blunt truth Ned always wanted to hear.

"You look lovely," said Ned, swiftly changing the topic. Ashara was garbed in a simple, yet pretty gown of grey and white; around her neck was the star pendant wrought from pearls she'd received from her late brother Ser Arthur Dayne; and pinning her long dark hair back was a silver direwolf pin. "A bit early to be ready for the wedding isn't it?"

"I thought it would distract me…"

"Maybe finding Arya would distract you."

Astonishment and resignation appeared in Ashara's expression. "She is not at all sound asleep in her chambers?"

"I thought I saw her sneak out with Needle. Could just be shadows though." He paused. "Lyarra asked Syrio to continue training Arya," he said cautiously. "Syrio will be arriving here…soon." Ashara didn't say anything. "We both know that our daughter would continue training regardless of what we do," Ned went on. "If we forbid her, she'd train in secret and it would only isolate her away from us. More training from Syrio would probably benefit her if when the wildling war is over, I might send her to Bear Island for a while."

"You will have her fostered there."

Ned nodded. "Maester Luwin had sent me a list of solutions to draw our house closer to the other northern houses and I plan to use a couple of them."

"It is for the best." Ashara patted Ned's hand. "You should change." Her purple eyes twinkled. "You don't want to earn our hostess's ire, now do you? I heard the Lady Arryn will be furious if even one guest is late. Astonishing, as she was still a great deal unhappy about her future good-son yesterday afternoon…"

* * *

"A toast!" King Robert boomed, raising his goblet. "To the Lady Sansa and Ser Harrold Hardyng!"

Ned raised his cup and echoed, "To the Lady Sansa and Ser Harrold!" He could not help but smile at the newly wedded couple who sat side by side in the middle of the high table. The Lady Sansa was attired in a gown of ivory samite and cloth-of-silver lined with silvery satin. Her sleeves were long and dagged, the points of them almost touching the ground. The bodice was slashed in front almost to her stomach, the deep vee covered over with a panel of ornate Myrish lace in a shade of sky blue. Her skirt was decorated with swirls of sky blue too. It was clear that Lady Arryn spared no expense for her eldest daughter's wedding. Ser Harrold wore a doublet of black velvet covered with swirls of red and white and over it a chain of alternating rubies and pearls. Emblazoned proudly on his doublet breast was his personal coat of arms: quartered with the Hardyng red and white diamonds and the Waynwood broken black wheel on a green field in the first and third quarters on the left and the sky-blue falcon soaring against white moon on a sky blue field on the second and fourth quarters on the right.

"They look more happy than Lady Arryn," Ashara remarked.

Ned chuckled in agreement. "I do not blame Lady Arryn though. Lady Sansa is her firstborn daughter and should be married to a great lord, not a knight. It was Jon who ordered her to be married to Harrold Hardyng for the sake of the Vale. If Robert Arryn was more robust and strong, Jon wouldn't have had to worry about the future of his lands if Lady Sansa becomes Lady of the Eyrie."

"She is still a girl," said Ashara, watching Lady Sansa blush at the comment her new husband whispered to her. "Yet tomorrow she will be a wife. Possibly even a mother in nine months."

"Children grow up," Ned said quietly. "Our children are growing up. Lyarra's a mother almost and Robb nearly a father. Soon it will be Bran, Gwenysse, Arthur, even Rickon." He smiled softly. "Time flies."

"Time flies…" repeated Ashara thoughtfully. "It does indeed."

Before anything else could be said, there was a sudden commotion at the high table. Robert had dropped his wine goblet onto the dais with a loud _clang_ , scarlet red liquid spilling all over the platform and dripping down to the ground.

Ned stood up, his own cup slipping from his grasp. His eyes widened.

 _Robert_.

Robert had collapsed on his seat, spluttering and coughing as his thick fingers began to claw at his throat. Shaking away the horror that cloaked all the wedding guests present, Ned ran to the dais, his heart pounding. Robert couldn't be dying, no, not like this…! When Ned reached his closest friend's side, he knew instantly, that it was too late. Robert's face was red – redder than usual – and his fingers all stiff and clutching his throat. His blue eyes were wide open, ripe with terror. Ned felt his own fingers curl into a fist as he dimly heard shouting and sobbing.

 _First Bran; now Robert_.

As a terrified scream sharply pierced the air, Ned continued to stare at Robert. Robert was more than a friend – he was a brother. They sparred together, they'd drank and ate together, they had mourned together and they had even won a war together. And now…it felt unreal. It felt…wrong…but it was true.

Robert Baratheon the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm and a brother and friend, was dead.

* * *

 **Name suggestions for Dany and Robb's child/children are still welcome! :) Fejstroll, no need to apologise! I'm delighted that you are still reading this story :D**


	102. Loras

Before dawn broke, Ser Loras Tyrell found himself brooding again as he could not help but walk irritably in circles in his chambers in the Windwyrm Tower, his silk green cloak billowing around him. Brooding was not the Knight of Flowers's style but it had been of late, and for good reason.

Stopping in front of the small window, Loras touched the obsidian stag brooch that clasped his cloak together. It was a gift from Renly – the last gift. It was also the boldest as Renly had commissioned for himself, a golden rose pin. Nobles and smallfolk alike could say that it was a gift from Margaery, who was conveniently Renly's lady wife, but a number of lords and ladies knew the truth.

Whilst it was Margaery whom Renly often walked with, it was Loras who was in Renly's bed. Neither Renly or Loras attempted to hide their relationship. There was no need as the servants in Renly's entourage were either completely loyal to Renly, or to Loras himself. Like any infatuated lover, Renly had taken in a couple of Reachmen Loras had suggested into his household. Maester Jurne was sent off back to the Citadel and Loras's great uncle Maester Gormon Tyrell took his place as the official maester of Dragonstone. Maester Gormon wasn't exactly pleased at the prospect of settling in Dragonstone, but Grandmother insisted. "Dragonstone must be well-populated with Tyrells before _his_ arrival," she had instructed. Now it was. Loras's great uncle as the official maester, some of his Tyrell cousins (Sers Theodore and Lyonel included) were stationed as household guards, more Tyrell cousins (Megga, Alla and Elinor) were a part of Margaery's ladies and a few more cousins (Denys Redwyne and Arthur Hightower) were Renly's squires.

 _I hope Grandmother is satisfied_ , thought Loras. He wasn't. He was pleased that Renly honoured him with the position of castellan, which angered the majority of the lords of the Narrow Sea, but he knew it was somehow part of Grandmother's plans. It was almost as if everything that happened, Grandmother knew about. It had always irked Loras. What he detested even more was how Grandmother was aware of his…affections for Renly and told him to take advantage of him. "Most of you men think with your cock, not your head," Grandmother had declared. "Even that lover of yours." Her small, beady eyes gleamed. "Take advantage of it."

Every time Loras had requested a Tyrell or a Reach relative to be placed in the Dragonstone household, he hated himself. It was what Grandmother wanted, and to some extent, Father, but not him. _Will Renly still love me if he discovers what I'd been doing? No man likes being taken advantage of by his lover._

Tired of prowling around his chambers like an imprisoned animal, Loras went straight to Aegon's Garden, knowing he would find his sister there.

"Loras," greeted Margaery, smiling at him. "You have time at last to spend time with your little sister?"

Loras bristled. "I break my fast with your every morning Margaery!"

Margaery laughed merrily. "So you do!" She gestured for him to sit down next to her on the stone bench with carvings of dragons on its arm, legs and back. The Targaryens loved twisting stone into dragons and carving dragon motifs onto the many doors, walls, furniture and other parts of the castle. It was not just dragons; designs of basilisks, cockatrices, griffins, hellhounds, wyverns and demons were also seen throughout Dragonstone.

"I see you're still a Baratheon supporter." Margaery touched the obsidian stag brooch. " _He_ won't be pleased when he arrives." Her eyes twinkled.

Loras shrugged with a small smile. " _He_ isn't here yet. You're also in Baratheon colours, Sister." Margaery had chosen to wear a black gown adorned with swirls of golden thread and around her waist was a golden belt embellished with half a dozen or so emeralds.

"Baratheon _and_ Tyrell colours," Margaery corrected him. "I was born a Tyrell of Highgarden and I'll die a Tyrell of Highgarden." She lowered her voice. "When I become _his_ wife, I will gladly wear the rightful colours of black and red. It is my destiny to be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms." Her brown eyes sparkled at the mere thought of it.

"What Grandmother had planned…it is all for you to be queen."

Margaery's smile widened. "The Baratheons refused me; the dragons will have me. _Growing Strong_. That is what we do." Loras loved her as a brother would love a sister (not as the Lannister twins loved each other though), but must Renly die in order for her to be queen? "If there was another option, I would've opted for it, Loras," said Margaery, as if reading Loras's uneasy thoughts. "You know that. I'm not heartless, Brother. My heart breaks when you're distressed." She reached out and squeezed Loras's hand. "Renly has to die," she said gently. Loras stared at the ground sulkily like a sullen child. "I can't wed _him_ if Renly is still alive," Margaery went on softly. "You know that, dear brother. Even though I am a maiden still, no man will be willing to agree to an annulment due to non-consummation? Besides, a living Baratheon will be a threat to my future husband's reign."

"You could let exile him to Essos," Loras said recklessly. "I'd follow him."

"Your duties lie here. To House Tyrell. To House Targaryen. Sometimes it's to be love that needs to be sacrificed for the better good." Margaery then moved her hand from Loras's. Margaery the sister was gone; Margaery the queen-to-be was here now. "What are the plans?" she inquired regally.

" _He_ will arrive sometime today," said Loras, finally allowing his thoughts to be distracted from Renly to the Targaryen restoration. "Probably the late afternoon, maybe the evening even. Dragonstone will surrender as will all of the lords of the Narrow Sea. The dragon banner will wave once more."

"Grandmother is clever, isn't she? Convincing Renly to hold a tourney here in a few days to celebrate his official arrival as its lord. All the lords of the Narrow Sea are probably on their way here as we speak." Margaery smiled. "By the time they arrive, they will be just in time to swear fealty to their new king."

"What if he dies in battle? Would it not be best to keep Renly alive? We can put him on the Iron Throne with you as his queen."

Margaery snorted, her smile vanishing. "Come now Loras. Even a child can see the foolishness in your suggestion. If we are openly supporting _him_ as king, there is no point keeping a stag alive. _He_ will not die in battle and if he does, his son or daughter will succeed him. That is what Grandmother wanted and we will not let her down. There will be a Tyrell-blooded child on the Iron Throne."

"What of the children?" Loras challenged. "Will we be like the Lannisters?"

"By the Seven no!" Disgust entered Margaery's voice. "Weren't you listening to Grandmother the other day? The last thing we want is for Westeros to view us as murderers and child killers. By the Seven, we are not Lannisters! No, the children will be married off to loyalists or sent to the Citadel and motherhouses. With one exception," she added. "Lyanna Baratheon will remain Willas's wife as their child will claim Storm's End for us Tyrells."

"And Lyarra Stark? I thought you were…friends with her."

"You don't need to worry about her." Margaery patted Loras's hand again. "All you need to worry about is the battles to come and protecting _him_. I'm certain he will be impressed with your fighting vigour and ask you to join his Kingsguard at the first opportunity he has. He will be mad not to have such a capable warrior in his Kingsguard. Who knows? Maybe you will be his Lord Commander as well." It was a dazzling smile Margaery gave him. "Is that not what you always wanted? A spot in the Kingsguard! Even when we played with our cousins during childhood, you always said you wanted to protect me and be my knight in shining armour."

Loras grinned sheepishly. "You always played the queen."

"Ser Loras!"

Loras's smile froze as Maester Gormon hobbled towards him, a small scroll of paper in hand. No…it was too soon…

Gormon nodded civilly at Margaery. "My lady." His brown eyes flickered from Margaery to Loras. "A raven from the Dowager Lady of Highgarden." He faltered, before handing the parchment to Margaery. _The Lady of Dragonstone trumps the Castellan of Dragonstone_ , thought Loras as he impatiently waited to be told what the letter contained. He suspected it was the news he absolutely dreaded to hear, but there was always the chance it wasn't.

"What did Grandmother say?" Loras murmured, hoping it wasn't bad news. He felt his heart slowly break when he saw Margaery gaze at him sympathetically. _It has happened_. Loras closed his eyes to prevent tears. _It has happened. Margaery is finally a widow and can legally marry the dragon king. The deed is done. My closest friend and lover is dead._ He could never caress Renly's soft skin again; hearing his genial and loving voice was also impossible now. "How did he die?" Loras choked out, brushing a long curl of brown hair away from his eyes.

"Lenn the Red," answered Margaery.

"Poisoned!"

Margaery nodded in confirmation. "Grandmother did not specify what type of poison in case…in case this ended up in wrong hands."

"Did he suffer at least?" said Loras, frustrated.

"It was most likely sweetsleep," Margaery tried to soothe him. "Grandmother's aware of your relationship with Renly and probably ensured he died a swift and painless death. Loras, at least you were not there to see him die-" Loras stood up abruptly. He was in no mood to listen to Margaery's ambition-infused words. She said it was an act of mercy that Loras did not witness Renly's death, but it was an obvious lie. Grandmother needed a Tyrell to guarantee Dragonstone's delivery to Targaryen hands – Willas was evidently dismissed due to his infirmity and Renly wouldn't bestow the title and position of castellan onto Garlan as they weren't at all close. Loras knew he was the clear choice and he hated it.

"My condolences," Loras muttered. His annoyance grew as Margaery frowned in confusion. "Your husband is dead," Loras reiterated. "My condolences. Did you practise weeping, or is that unnecessary?" Without waiting for a response, he left, leaving Margaery alone in Aegon's Garden. It was the first time in over a dozen or so years in which Loras argued and abandoned his only sister. _The world doesn't circle around Margaery_ , Loras pondered savagely. _And Renly didn't have to die for her._ The vision of the once possible sellsword life in Essos appeared. Both he and Renly were good swordsmen and could earn enough gold for a comfortable and a peaceful life away from ambition, politics and death.

 _Life is not a song_.

Loras kicked a rock impulsively. Grandmother enjoyed reminding him that life was not a song. He didn't need a reminder. _What will happen to Renly's body?_ The Baratheon king would be laid to rest in a tomb in the Great Sept of Baelor as all of his predecessors had been but what of Renly? He was the first and last Baratheon Lord of Dragonstone – would it be fitting for him to be buried at Dragonstone? A hot tear escaped from Loras's left eye. Dragonstone was a stranger to Renly; he'd not be at peace buried there. _If only I can return to Highgarden with Renly's body. He loved Highgarden – he would be happier buried there_. It would be bizarre for a Baratheon to be buried at Highgarden, but it would be what Renly wanted.

Calming himself down, Loras walked into the Stone Drum and climbed up the set of stairs to the Chamber of the Painted Table. That chamber was supposed to be Renly's solar. It was an impressive room and even Renly would appreciate the beauty of it. It was a shame that Renly would never glimpse the room. To Loras's knowledge, even the stag king was a stranger in this room.

 _Another king will claim this chamber soon_.

It wouldn't be long now _. Why couldn't Grandmother be pleased with having the stags on the Throne?_ Loras thought rebelliously. If Margaery wasn't able to wed a Baratheon prince, surely one of Willas's descendants would have a chance to be a queen? Baratheons would not marry their heirs to Starks every time. Oh no, both Father and Grandmother wanted Margaery to be queen. At least Father had plans for Margaery to be a Baratheon queen. Loras darkened. He still recalled the time Grandmother called him a fool for agreeing with Father.

"Ser Loras?"

Loras stifled a sigh. His cousin Ser Lyonel had found him. Lyonel wasn't bad or a rogue, but he had no brains. He was loyal, but he did naught unless he was told a specific order. Loras studied his cousin. Lyonel was tall and had the brown eyes of his father Ser Leo and the golden brown hair of his mother Lady Alys Beesbury. It also seemed Lyonel was attempting to grow a beard.

"What is it?" said Loras, stepping out of the Chamber of the Painted Table and closing the door behind him. It came as no surprise when he caught a glimpse of the dragons dancing across the door frame.

"There's been a sighting of ships," Lyonel reported. "The other guards sent me to inform you."

 _The rightful king is almost here_. "Let them come."

Lyonel stared at him, astonished for probably the first time in his life. "Did you say _let them_ , Ser Loras? Is Lord Baratheon expecting guests?"

"I suppose so," said Loras absently. Lyonel frowned. "Lord Baratheon is at the Eyrie is he not, Ser Loras? My brothers are there."

"They are most likely…early guests for the Dragonstone tourney. You are quite aware that Lord Baratheon plans to hold a tourney here?"

"O-of course! Guests, Ser Loras? You are certain?"

"Quite." A lump formed in Loras's throat. "Maybe some guests are coming here from the Vale. A couple of lords might have decided to attend the Vale wedding – the king himself is at the Vale wedding."

Lyonel nodded. "As you say, Ser Loras." He hesitated for a moment. "What is it that you wish me to convey to the other guards?"

"Tell them not to worry about the ships. There will be people coming here in a few hours I believe. Allow them to pass. They are here for the tourney or they are in need for rest on their journey home from the Vale. Maybe they bring pieces of Vale news with them."

"Yes, Ser Loras. I'll tell the other guards that at once." His initial rage replaced by depression, Loras wandered around the castle with no clear goal in mind. Was it time to watch for ships again? No. The household guards are doing that and if a Pentoshi ship was spotted, Lyonel would probably come running.

Maybe seeking out Gormon was a better idea. Loras dismissed it. Gormon was probably talking to Margaery and Loras was not interested in talking to his sister just yet. He knew he would speak to her eventually. Like any sibling argument no matter how childish, it would always come to an end.

Bored of brooding and thinking about his dead lover, Loras escaped the castle to the training yard. No one else was about – exactly as Loras hoped. Loras strode to the practice dummies, his sword in hand. Testing one of the practice dummies, Loras prodded the dummy's head. He sneezed. Dust slowly fluttered to the stone ground and onto the tip of Loras's sword. When was the last time those practice dummies were used? From experience, practice dummies were never cleaned or washed – they were patched up from time to time though. Loras studied three of the practice dummies closest to him. The canvas on the practice dummies had all been patched at least once, but not recently. Renly had never sparred with Loras or anyone at Dragonstone; Stannis didn't seem the sparring type; and before the Baratheons claimed Dragonstone, the last Targaryen queen resided here.

Shrugging aside the inquisitive thoughts, Loras twisted his sword around and attacked the first practice dummy to his right. He hacked, whacked and drove his sword through the dummy's head. He breathed heavily and stabbed the dummy a second time, and then a third, a fourth, a fifth…

Scraps of old straw and fragments of canvas rained everywhere on the ground, slivers of old straw landing on Loras's boots. Ignoring the remnants of straw and canvas, Loras turned his attention to the next practice dummy. _Picture it as your enemy_ , Loras told himself. _It was originally Garlan's idea. Think of this dummy as a Baratheon soldier – your foe_.

It didn't work.

All Loras could see was the wooden figure clothed in canvas and stuffed tight with old straw planted in front of him.

Loras launched into another vigorous training exercise _. What's the matter with me?_ Loras thought, furiously stabbing the second practice dummy. Visualising an army of men in Baratheon (or other enemy) colours was simple; a hopeless child could even do it. To his horror, the practice dummy morphed into _Renly_. No…no, it shouldn't be Renly. Loras's sword hand faltered. "Why?" Loras murmured. "I've done nothing…I wanted you to _live_ , not die." If he had his way, he would've defied his grandmother and Margaery and insisted for Renly to live. What did the Queen of Thorns and Margaery know about love? _Nothing_. All they'd loved and nurtured were power and ambition.

It was well known that women serve men; in House Tyrell, it was the men that fought for the women's whims. Grandmother wanted Margaery queen and all the Tyrell men would be obliged to fight for that to happen.

Loras closed his eyes. "Family first," he said aloud. "Everything we do is for the good of House Tyrell." He opened his eyes and stared at the gleaming blade of his sword. "House Tyrell will rise," he said, echoing Grandmother's words. "It will be the greatest of Great Houses." With him a member of the Kingsguard, his brother Willas the Lord Protector of Storm's End, their brother Garlan a member of Small Council and Margaery queen, what could go wrong?

* * *

"Oh! He is almost here!" Loras remained still as Margaery grabbed his arm. "It is too soon!" Margaery exclaimed excitedly. "I thought _he_ would be here when it's closer to evening! The winds must be on his side!"

Loras forced himself to nod in agreement. There was no point brooding about Renly now with the Targaryen king so close to Dragonstone.

"Ser Loras?" came Lyonel's tentative voice. "Are you certain we're to allow the um, riders in? There is quite a lot of them for guests."

"We're to give them entrance!" snapped Loras.

"What say Lady Baratheon?" challenged another household guard who wasn't one of Loras's relatives or loyal to House Tyrell. "She's Lord Baratheon's wife and should decide whether we are to give those men entrance or not." Loras couldn't help but shoot him an annoyed glare. He was the Castellan of Dragonstone – why ask Margaery at all?

Margaery smiled at the household guard who acknowledged her. "My husband will not wish for us to be unhospitable, especially with a tourney so close. He will be most displeased to hear we refused to allow weary travellers entry. You'll not wish to face my lord husband's wrath, now do you?" Renly was never angry. In a rare moment that he was, he would mutter and complain forcefully. Renly would never raise his voice or shout furiously like his brother Robert Baratheon. Slowly, a lump formed in Loras's throat as Renly returned in his mind.

"Very well," the household guard said with a nod. He looked at Loras. "We give them entrance?" he asked.

"Yes," said Loras irritably. "How many times must I say we are to give the men entrance? A dozen? Twice a dozen? Thrice a dozen?"

Margaery shot him a warning look. _Calm down_ , her brown eyes ordered. _There is no point snapping at the household guards_. Loras almost huffed. The household guards would be angry when they discover the Tyrell plans anyway.

It wasn't long before the black doors swung open and the Targaryen king right in front of Loras. The household guards gasped and shouted as they saw the true king's black tunic embroidered with the three-headed red dragon. The king took another step forward. Loras instantly knelt. "Your Grace," he heard himself say. "I am honoured to welcome you to Dragonstone."

"You may rise." The young Targaryen king's voice was confident. Loras obeyed and stared at him. King Aegon had the Valyrian features: violet eyes and a mop of silver hair. Sitting on his brow was a golden crown encrusted with rubies. Loras took a deep breath.

The time for mourning and brooding was over. The Targaryen king across the water was home. The second reign of the dragon was about to begin.

* * *

 **Thank you for the list of Northern names! I greatly appreciated it :) I did feel slightly bad for killing off both Robert and Renly Baratheon together, but it was needed to advance the story. Besides, what is an ASOIAF story without deaths? :)**


	103. The King in the Narrow Sea

"Your Grace, I am honoured to welcome you to Dragonstone."

Aegon looked down at the two kneeling people, a smile on his face. The closest was a young man of around his own age with long, flowing brown hair. The other kneeling figure Aegon recognised as his wife-to-be, Lady Margaery Tyrell. When her large brown eyes met Aegon's, Aegon smiled. She was as pretty as her Myrish painting in the rose gold locket in Aegon's possession.

"You may rise," Aegon said confidently. As the rest of his entourage – Lord Jon Connington, Septa Lemore, Haldon, Ser Rolly Duckfield – and the two captains of the sellsword companies the Golden Company and the Windblown joined him, he glanced around. He still couldn't believe that he was finally on Westerosi soil and in Dragonstone Castle, the original seat of his Targaryen ancestors. When he still lingered in Magister Illyrio Mopatis's manse, he dreamt of Dragonstone and what he imagined was the Iron Throne. When Lord Connington finally informed Aegon that the time was ripe to journey to Westeros, Aegon almost didn't believe him. It didn't take very long to pack and convince the two sellsword companies to follow Aegon and his household to the first stronghold in Westeros: Dragonstone.

"Your Grace," the young man said uncertainly, "who are these men?"

"Lord Jon Connington of Griffin's Roost," said Aegon promptly, indicating Lord Connington with a gesture, "Septa Lemore, Haldon and Ser Rolly Duckfield. They are have supported the Targaryen cause since the Usurper's war. This man here" – Aegon pointed at the portly man beside Lord Connington with a big round head, mild grey eyes and thinning grey hair – "is Harry Strickland, Captain-General of a sellsword company. The Golden Company. And this man over here" – he gestured to the ancient man with silver-grey hair and a long beard – "prefers to be known as the Tattered Prince. He is commander of the Windblown."

"An honour to meet you," the young man responded, dipping his head slightly. "An ally of His Grace's is an ally of House Tyrell." He hesitated a little, glancing at the woman Aegon presumed to be Lady Margaery Tyrell. "I'm Ser Loras of House Tyrell," the young man went on, "Castellan of Dragonstone. This is my sister Lady Margaery Tyrell." His golden eyes met Aegon's. "Your betrothed, I believe."

"His Grace is not one to break his word," Lord Connington said suddenly and a little icily. "He doesn't need to be reminded of his future marriage." Aegon raised an eyebrow in surprise at Lord Connington's outburst. "We had quite the journey, Ser Loras," Aegon said smoothly, desperate to appease the affronted knight. "You must forgive Lord Connington. He barely slept a wink since our departure from a dock in Pentos up till our arrival here."

"Of course, Your Grace." It was Lady Margaery Tyrell who'd spoke. She smiled sweetly. "Do you wish to be taken to your chambers?"

"Not at the moment my lady," said Aegon, smiling politely back at her. "But my loyal lords, knights and men here will be grateful for refreshments and rest."

"Dragonstone's under the command of Lord Renly Baratheon!" one of the men in Baratheon colours finally said loudly. "Dragonstone will not tolerate or stand a plot regarding Lord Baratheon's enemies!"

Aegon's eyes swept to the Baratheon garrison of men who'd been all called to the entrance hall. About half of them looked uneasy; the rest were either looking furious or delighted. Actually, none of them looked fully happy.

"As Castellan of Dragonstone," Ser Loras Tyrell said more assertively than he'd been before, "I surrender Dragonstone and its castle to House Targaryen." Giving the Dragonstone men a look, he knelt and offered Aegon his sword. Slightly more hesitant, the Dragonstone men slowly followed suit and knelt…except the single, obstinate man who had spoken earlier.

"I swore loyalty to House Baratheon," the man stated, "and I will remain loyal to the Baratheon cause."

"You are outnumbered," said Aegon, unease and bemusement both swimming in his stomach. "Surely your desire to live will overrule your loyal words said to a brother of the Usurper King."

"I am not a traitor," the man said stubbornly.

"What's your name?"

"Jate Blackberry, Captain of the Gate."

Aegon glanced at Lord Connington. _Throw him into the dungeons or kill him for treason,_ Lord Connington's pale blue eyes said with a hint of impatience. _There is no time to deal with rebellious men loyal to the Usurper._ Aegon looked back at Jate Blackberry who stared boldly back. "You look like a man with sons," Aegon said a little casually, "and daughters." He was pleased to see Blackberry flinch, his pink cheeks paler than before. "Unnecessary bloodshed is ugly," Aegon continued. "Do you honestly want your children to be fatherless because you refuse to recognise Dragonstone in Targaryen control now?"

"What'll you do?" Blackberry snarled, spittle flying out from his mouth. "Have your men raid my home and burn my children? That's what Targaryens do! Burn innocent children at their every whim!"

"I have no intention of burning your children," said Aegon quietly. "I'm not my grandfather. He was mad and what he did was wrong. Burning the innocent…it's something I will never do. I am a merciful man. Swear allegiance to me like all the other men of the garrison and no unnecessary blood will be shed. I'm also willing to take one of your sons as a squire or page."

Blackberry narrowed his eyes. "A hostage, eh?"

Aegon sighed. "I cannot force you to swear allegiance to me and I have no wish to kill you. House Blackberry is a knightly house, yes?" He glanced swiftly at Lord Connington who nodded in confirmation. "When was the last time a member of a knightly house squired for the king?" he challenged Blackberry. "It is an honour – one that you will deprive your son of?" He turned to Harry Strickland. "I desire to see the rest of Dragonstone. Can you ensure two of your men keep an eye on Jate Blackberry here? I know you wish to drink, eat and rest."

"Aye," grunted Harry Strickland.

"I will be more than happy to show you around Dragonstone Your Grace," said Lady Margaery, flashing a dazzling smile at Aegon. "My brother here can show all your men and commanders their guest chambers."

Aegon nodded. Might as well become acquainted with his future wife. The two of them were to wed in a few hours anyway. "Thank you my lady." Since he was a child, he'd heard so much about the Seven Kingdoms, Dragonstone in particular – it was exciting seeing and touching parts of Dragonstone himself. Following Lady Margaery out of the entrance hall, Aegon's eyes flittered everywhere. There was so much to see here in Dragonstone, from the dragon claws holding the torches, a pair of great wings covering the armoury and smithy, many dragon tail archways and staircases and the designs of dragons, basilisks, cockatrices, demons, griffins, hellhounds, manticores, minotaurs and wyverns throughout Dragonstone.

"That is the Great Hall," said Lady Margaery, bringing Aegon from his thoughts. Aegon gasped in wonder like a child as he saw that the heavy red doors were set in the mouth of a large stone dragon lying on its belly. "We're in the Stone Drum," Lady Margaery told him, "the main tower in the castle. Do you wish to be taken to your solar, Your Grace?"

Aegon nodded. The Chamber of the Painted Table was a room he was looking forward to standing in. "The Stone Drum," he murmured thoughtfully. "I was told it was named for the booming and rumbling sounds that can be heard during the worst storms here."

"I cannot say if that is true Your Grace," answered Lady Margaery. "Since I had arrived here, the days were good. The Seven are on your side."

"Please, call me Aegon. We will be husband and wife by the end of the day."

"Then I insist you call me Margaery."

Aegon smiled. Margaery was kind, sweet and clever by the sounds of it, almost a perfect wife and queen. "Margaery," he repeated. Questions swarmed his mind. Was she happy when she was married to the Usurper's younger brother? Did she feel heartbroken when the Usurper's brother died in order for her to marry him? Was she only willing to marry him for a crown?

Margaery led Aegon up the stairs onto what Aegon found out was the top floor in the Stone Drum. As Aegon stepped into the chamber, he gasped again. Lord Jon had often described the Chamber of the Painted Table to him in as much detail as he described Aegon's father Prince Rhaegar, and Aegon remembered every word Lord Connington used to describe the chamber, yet it did not prepare him for the sight of the chamber.

The Chamber of the Painted Table was almost a spectacle of artistry instead of a solar where Aegon the Conqueror began planning his invasion of Westeros. The room was round with four tall windows overlooking the north, south, east, west, and bare black walls. In the middle of it was a large table _, the Painted Table_ , that was carved and painted in the form of a detailed map of Westeros. The table was more than fifty feet long: roughly around twenty five feet wide at its widest point and four feet at its thinnest. Aegon walked up to the Painted Table, staring at it in fascination and awe. The craftsmanship of it was…was brilliant. Clever. Splendid. Aegon circled the table and stopped at the raised seat which stood on the precise location of Dragonstone. He tentatively reached out and touched the chair. It was the very seat Aegon the Conqueror sat on when he discussed invasion plans with his two sister-wives. The first Aegon planned his conquest here a little more than three centuries ago and was successful; it seemed his descendant would too. In a better mood, Aegon slowly sat down on the raised seat. It wasn't the Iron Throne, yet as he sat and studied the Painted Table, he felt like the true King of Westeros, not the exiled king in Pentos.

"You look every inch a king," said Margaery in a hushed tone.

Aegon couldn't help beaming. He knew it was somewhat wrong, but he could not help a smile. "You truly think that?"

"Yes." Margaery gazed at him admiringly. "Every inch _my_ king."

* * *

"It isn't too late to refuse her," Lord Connington whispered as Aegon pinned a new silk black cloak around his shoulders with his dragon brooch wrought from rubies with onyxes for its eyes. "I heard that the Tyrells no longer have the naval power that we need."

Aegon looked at him, annoyed. "Lord Connington, I greatly value your support and advice, but I must say, you'd never liked the idea of my betrothal to the Lady Margaery Tyrell. Yes, she was married to Renly Baratheon, but she claimed their marriage was unconsummated. Ser Loras swore by the Seven that on the night of the wedding, Renly was too intoxicated to consummate their union. I believe you were always telling me that the Martells cannot support me alone and that House Tyrell's support is needed. Do you wish for the Tyrells to abandon my cause and betray us to the Baratheons? It'll be very easy for them to do so."

"Stannis Baratheon married Paxter Redwyne's daughter. He wouldn't give us a measly boat with his daughter now Stannis Baratheon's wife. There're only three powerful fleets in Westeros and the Redwyne fleet is said to equal, if not surpass the royal fleet. Yes, the Tyrells can field the greatest armies, but without ships to control the seas, your hold on the Iron Throne will not be…fully secure."

Lord Connington had a valid point. "We will not stay here for much longer my lord," said Aegon patiently. "Tomorrow morning the lords of the Narrow Sea will all arrive and swear fealty to me. In the afternoon, we'll leave for King's Landing." He adjusted his crown. "I will be in the first vessel with the Golden Company; you will remain here with five hundred men from the Windblown to ensure the castle stays in Targaryen hands. Once the lords of the Narrow Sea gather their men, you will prepare defences in case Baratheon loyalists attack. It is paramount we don't lose Dragonstone. Septa Lemore will stay here with Lady Margaery and when the capital is safe in my hands, I will send for her."

"Your trust for House Tyrell is so little-"

"I value your counsel above everyone's," Aegon cut in quickly as he walked out of his chamber and slowly towards the sept. "You will be my Hand and I need you here…for now. When we begin the Stormlands campaign, I will put Ser Rolly here and you will lead the campaign." He smiled. "You'll be the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands after all. Now come. The sooner I marry Lady Margaery, the sooner I will have the full support of House Tyrell." To his irritation, Lord Connington did not look as appeased as he had hoped.

"It takes time for lords – especially the reluctant lords – to muster their men," Lord Connington said, frowning slightly. "Time and patience is what you need as allies, Your Grace. Your plans are…sound, but based on impatience."

Aegon gritted his teeth. "I waited _all my life_ for this, Lord Connington. You're a seasoned soldier and commander, one I can trust fully, but what use is waiting in a castle when King's Landing is up for the taking now?"

"We have the stag loyalists holed up in the Eyrie now, but it will not take them long to gather troops. They will launch a full attack – we will probably only have half their numbers."

"We will have enough once all the lords of the Crownlands swear allegiance to me in the Red Keep." Aegon smiled at Lord Connington. "It'll all go to plan. Now, I believe there is a wedding to attend to?"

* * *

Aegon felt he had been sufficiently prepared for kingship in Pentos in all areas of learning including half a dozen languages, history, songs and mathematics, but when it came to the bedding last night…he felt like a green boy fumbling around, mumbling apologies almost every minute. Thankfully Margaery knew what to do. _Is it normal?_ Aegon wondered, as he headed to the Great Hall. Men liked to boast of their…manhood and sexual experience, and Septa Lemore had made it clear he should be expecting a shy maiden on his bed. Margaery wasn't a shirking maiden, but she wasn't acting like a whore either. Not that Aegon spent much time with a whore either. Lord Connington disapproved of it immensely. "A king shouldn't be frequenting brothels or associating with harlots," he had told Aegon. "Look at the Usurper – he is the opposite of a good king your father expects you to be." Not all the members of Aegon's household agreed to that. Magister Illyrio had laughed at Lord Connington's words and had hinted to Aegon, "Your Grace, not every king is Baelor the Blessed. Just say the word and I'll have the finest Lysene pillow house worker smuggled to your bedchamber. Just say the word." Aegon never did.

"Did you rest well, Your Grace?" Lord Connington was at Aegon's side. "I hope everything went well."

"It was ah, satisfactory," said Aegon uncomfortably, praying Lord Jon wouldn't pry anymore on the matter. "If the Seven's with me, Margaery will be giving birth to an heir in nine months. I will um, see her again in her chamber today…before I leave." He blushed. Lord Connington said nothing. His blush disappearing, Aegon climbed up the steps to the gateway teeth. Two guardsmen opened the heavy red doors before him. Aegon nodded briefly at them and stepped down into the maw of the dragon, Lord Connington behind him. The four principal Narrow Sea lords were already seated at the trestle tables in their finest attire. When Aegon took a step towards them, all the lords stared at him, more shocked and surprised than furious at being detained, their weapons confiscated.

Aegon did not know the lords by name, but he could recognise their features – it was even more of an advantage as their garments all carried their House sigils. Aegon spotted his distant kinsman the Lord of Tides first. His ancestors had often married Velaryons and there was always a close bond between their Houses. "My lord Velaryon," said Aegon warmly, smiling at the Velaryon lord who was quite a handsome looking man with the familiar Valyrian features of long silver hair and violet eyes. Lord Velaryon was in sea-green silk with a white gold seahorse pin at his throat. "I hope you are well, Cousin. Is that your son, my lord?" Sitting next to Lord Velaryon was a boy of about eight with purple eyes and fair hair.

To Aegon's frustration, Lord Velaryon looked wary. "I am quite well thank you, my lord," he said, forcing a smile. "Yes, this is my son, Monterys."

"Our Houses have been allies for generations," said Aegon pleasantly. "We are family, even. When I was exiled in Pentos, I thought: who can I trust most in all of Westeros? Of course! My cousins of House Velaryon." He almost sighed, relieved, as Lord Velaryon looked mollified and more at ease. "Can I count on your House's support, my lord?"

Lord Velaryon stood and bowed. "For generations, House Velaryon had been a friend to House Targaryen." His purple eyes met Aegon's. "House Velaryon _is_ still a friend to House Targaryen, Your Grace."

A broad smile bloomed on Aegon's face. "I am relieved to hear that, my lord of Velaryon. Who knows? Perhaps our Houses will unite once more." He turned to a plump man of seventeen garbed in purple velvet trimmed with white seal. Before Aegon could speak, the young man stood up and said hastily. "I, Lord Duram Bar Emmon, the Lord of Sharp Point pledge House Bar Emmon to House Targaryen's cause." He bowed clumsily. "Your Grace, I'm afraid all my House can contribute is our finest warship, _Swordfish_."

One warship was better than none. Aegon nodded. "I will look forward to have you in my war council, Lord Bar Emmon."

Lord Sunglass, dressed in white and gold with moonstones at his throat, wrist and fingers stood up. "House Sunglass will also pledge allegiance to you," he said, bowing to Aegon, "on the sole condition that you and your descendants cease the Valyrian practice of incestuous marriages."

Aegon had expected that request. Margaery had helpfully told him earlier that the current Lord Sunglass of Sweetport Sound was quite a devout man who prayed in his sept three times a day. "I accept your sole condition, my lord," he said calmly, smiling at Lord Sunglass's expression that was a mix between astonishment and approval. "House Targaryen's downfall was due to incestuous marriages, and I'll assure you Lord Sunglass, I have no desire to continue the practice of incest once I sit on the Iron Throne."

Lord Sunglass bowed deeper. "Then House Sunglass will join your cause, Your Grace. May the Seven bless you." As he sat down, the last of the Narrow Sea lords, an old sour-faced man cloaked with a mantle patterned with red crabs picked out in glittering garnets stood up, looking at Aegon with suspicion.

"Lord Celtigar," said Aegon pleasantly. "I heard you fought beside my father-"

"A mistake!" snapped the old man grouchily. "Do you know what I lost in that damned war, boy? My three sons, my two brothers and my bastard half-brother! If that wasn't all, the king forced me to pay reparations for my part! Do you know how much gold I lost in that blasted war? And for what? Being a good vassal!"

"House Celtigar prospered during the reign of the Targaryens more so than in the reign of the stags," said Aegon, ignoring Lord Celtigar's outburst. "If I recall, it was Lord Edwell Celtigar who served as the Hand of the King to Maegor the Cruel and Lord Crispian Celtigar who served as Master of Coin to Aegon the Conqueror himself." He watched the old Lord of Claw Isle scratch his chin. "I am in need of a Master of Laws," Aegon continued. "I heard a great deal about you, my lord. You'd persistently sent men to Crackclaw Point to collect taxes. I need a loyalist who is capable of steadfastly hunting down criminals. Who better than you?"

It only took old Lord Celtigar a few minutes to gather his thoughts. He gave an exaggerated sigh. "Eh, so be it. House Celtigar swears fealty to you Your Grace."

Aegon beamed at the four lords triumphantly. It would not be difficult now for him to receive the support of the lords of Crackclaw Point – Crackclaw Point had always been known to be a region of Targaryen loyalists.

"The Kings of Westeros will be dragons once more," Aegon declared. As all the Narrow Sea lords echoed his words, Aegon's smile broadened. He had been king in exile for far too long; now he was the King in the Narrow Sea. He would be the one and only _true_ King of Westeros soon – very soon indeed.

* * *

 **I really enjoyed writing this chapter. It might be strange for Aegon to be astonished when he saw the Painted Table for the first time, but he had probably heard about it all his life and was finally seeing it in person. Thank you all for the comments in the reviews as it really gave me more ideas to add in the story and thank you for pointing out parts I can work on :)**

 **I thought it would be nice to upload this story as Season 7 Game of Thrones will air today/tomorrow (depending on your country and time zone) and also because if you exclude the appendices, this chapter is the 100th chapter of _The Dance of Spring_ :D **


	104. Ramsay

The sound of sobbing was music to Ramsay _Bolton's_ ears. As he sharpened his flaying knife in front of the warm fire, two men walked up to him, dragging a girl between them. Ramsay chuckled as he looked up and glimpsed the girl's tears. It was a treat to capture a bold girl; a weeping girl…an ordinary catch.

"Well, well," smirked Ramsay, his pale eyes gazing at the girl lustfully. "What a find…who do we have here?"

"Some villager milord," said Damon Dance-for-Me, a fair-haired man sworn to House Bolton who favoured the whip as his weapon of choice. "Found her trying to sneak to the river with a bucket." He kicked a wooden bucket towards Ramsay. "Reckon it's good for the fire milord?"

Ramsay stood up. He licked his lips and caressed the girl's chin. "What a lovely girl…what's your name?"

The girl only wept louder.

"You will die today," Ramsay crooned. "That is a promise, my pretty. How you will die will depend on you…" He leant closer and breathed on her cheek. "It'll all depend on you…" He cackled as the girl shuddered. "You cooperate and I promise it will only be my hands touching you. You rather be a little bitch…" He held up a flaying knife, a grin on his face as the girl cried out in fear. _I love the sound of fear_ , thought Ramsay gleefully, his cock hardening. He hoped the girl would struggle – it was always a treat for him when they did. "Will you be a good little bitch for me, pretty one?" Ramsay murmured, the tip of his flaying knife tracing a circle on the girl's right cheek. The girl nodded tearfully. "Then tell me, what is your name?"

"Jeyne," the girl whimpered. "Please don't hurt me…"

"Looks like a weak one milord," remarked Damon nastily. "Better use to all the men here who haven't had a bitch to warm their beds in days."

"No!" snarled Ramsay, grabbing Jeyne by the throat. "This one is _MINE_." He did not need Damon Dance-for-Me to tell him the latest bitch was no fun. He was well experienced himself. The bitch might not be a good fuck, but his flaying knife had thirsted for a new victim and she was perfect…

Absolutely perfect.

"There are already two Jeynes in the kennels milord," grunted Ben Bones, the old kennelmaster at the Dreadfort. Like most of the old servants at the Dreadfort, Ben Bones had a somewhat savage streak in him, which Ramsay liked. Once both the other Boltons were dead, Ramsay instructed Ben Bones to train his hounds to kill wolves and develop a taste for human flesh – old Ben Bones complied, with a genuinely happy smile on his wrinkly face. "I like dogs better than men," the man had once declared, "more easy to tame. Break even," he'd added with a smirk. He could sniff out defiance in the hounds as a dog could smell fresh blood.

Ramsay shrugged. "Who said there will be a third Jeyne in the kennels?"

"What about Winterfell?" asked Sour Alyn, his foul breath wafting close to the others around the campfire. "M'lord, you said-"

"I know what I said!" growled Ramsay, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Are you planning to deny me this bitch, hmm?" His jerked Jeyne by the throat. "Is this one what you want, eh? You want a bitch to warm your bed and as you couldn't find a bitch of your own, you want to steal mine?"

"No!" exclaimed Sour Alyn as Ramsay stepped closer to him, still holding Jeyne by her throat. "What I mean-"

"Next time it'll be your skin I wear for warmth," hissed Ramsay. "Winterfell's a short distance away and there _is no hurry_. Skinner reported two hours ago that a certain Robb Stark is still cleaning up our mess in the Hornwood." He smirked. "A proud achievement, men. For too long we served the fucking Starks; now they're doing us a service in Hornwood." His men snickered and jeered. "Robb Stark will be the Lord Who Lost His Home when he comes back." Ramsay smiled as his men cheered louder. Keeping his fingers wrapped tightly around the bitch's throat, he headed to his old spot by the campfire. Ramsay had oft fucked girls in front of his cronies, sometimes flaying them even.

"I want to hear you scream," Ramsay whispered into Jeyne's ear. "I want all of my men to hear what a fucking whore you are. I want the sons of bitches all over the North to hear you scream…" Uttering a maniacal laugh, Ramsay pushed Jeyne the bitch onto the ground and with a quick, expert move, sliced the bitch's ripped gown from her chest to ankles. _Oh, I am going to enjoy this_ …

* * *

After watching his hounds devour the bitch Jeyne's corpse, Ramsay wiped the blade of his flaying knife clean and turned to his men. "We'll set out for Winterfell in a few hours," he announced, aware it was the beginning of nightfall. "I hope all of you are well rested." His wide, meaty lips curved into a grin as he caught sight of a few men exchanging concerned looks with each other.

"It is…almost dark milord," said Damon Dance-with-Me hesitantly.

"The best time to give the Starks a gift," said Ramsay, his grin widening. "What a surprise it will be for them when they wake up in the morning!"

"We don't know how to infiltrate Winterfell-" He stopped as he saw Ramsay's knowing smile. "You know…" said Damon slowly. He frowned. "Milord, you never told us you knew how to infiltrate Winterfell. You always said you would think of a plan as we get there."

"I am the Lord of the Dreadfort! Every lord has his secrets." The men wouldn't be happy to know Ramsay's attack plan was based on useful information Ramsay found reading through his dead half-brother's many long, sappy letters he wrote and received to and from the Stark bitch who was now a princess. Ramsay never had the patience to read long letters, but reading Domeric's…it had been worth it. Not only was Domeric the weakest Bolton to have ever existed, he'd liked to keep his letters in a neat pile tied together by a piece of strong red string. Ramsay had originally planned to use the letters as food for his fires, but something prodded him to read through them first. Even though it took a few days, it was so worth it. _My dear, dead brother has helped me more than he'd thought_. When Domeric was chained to the prison walls, all he did was curse. A pity. If Domeric had been a lot more obliging with information Ramsay craved, he wouldn't have had to suffer a prolonged, excruciatingly painful death. Being the fool that he was, Domeric had refused to give any helpful information and suffered for it.

Ah well, honourable idiots tended to die violently.

"Milord," said Damon, standing up and putting out the campfire. "Even though the uh, gift, is still intact, I don't believe the Starks will recognise it."

"I'll leave them a note," said Ramsay irritably. He turned to Ben Bones. "I want the bitches rounded up and ready to go. When we arrive, I want them all silent. If we are betrayed by one howl, I will personally flay the bitch that howled."

Ben Bones gave him a toothless grin. "Aye milord."

The bitches would have their fun once the battle truly began. _The Starks won't be expecting that_ , Ramsay thought gleefully. _They may have those giant wolves as soldiers, but I have had my bitches trained to bite and consume human flesh_. A few days before he and his men set out to raid the Hornwood, Ramsay had instructed old Ben Bones to deny the bitches their regular meals. When Ramsay had his pets set loose, it was blood galore.

It wouldn't be long before Winterfell too was a picture of blood, guts and bone. Ramsay smiled to himself. Most of his men were never lucky to have a noble lady warm their beds; soon they'd be able to fuck as many noblewomen as they desire. _A pity the eldest Stark bitch is not at Winterfell. I would have enjoyed fucking her before flaying her alive_. Once the Bolton banners fluttered on the Winterfell walls and battlements, there would be no Starks alive in the North. Every Stark lurking on Northern land, whether it be a man, woman or child, would be found, rounded up and brought to Winterfell where Ramsay would personally flay them alive. He smirked. _I have never flayed a babe before_ , he mused. _A babe's skin would be soft, very soft indeed_. Perhaps it would be better to feed the Stark babes to his hounds. His hounds will be the first to ever taste Stark flesh.

Ramsay chuckled out loud, earning questionable looks from Sour Alyn and old Ben Bones who stood closest to him. His hounds will be the first to devour Starks, but they had already been the first to rip and swallow noble flesh. It was back in the Hornwood, what a memorable moment it was. Ramsay had ordered a quarter of his men to attack in the Hornwood, allowing the rumour that they were a band of brigands and bandits to spread. As expected, the Hornwood heir showed up in an hour with a small squad of men. That was when Ramsay released the bitches – all the Hornwood men, including the heir were ripped to shreds.

"Is something amusing milord?" grunted Ben Bones cautiously.

"Only my future plans," smirked Ramsay, sheathing his flaying knife into a soft leather scabbard made from human skin. "Is everyone ready?" There was a quiet chorus of "ayes" from his men. Just as Ramsay refrained from feeding his hounds from time to time, his _late_ father had refused permission for his men to kill, rape and plunder as much as they wanted. Whilst the hounds became more rabid and hungry, the men became more bloodthirsty and savage.

It was exactly what Ramsay wanted.

 _I will be the first Lord Bolton of the Dreadfort and Winterfell. The direwolf sigil will disappear like the direwolves and the people will fear the flayed man sigil as it should be. If the other Northern Houses refuse to submit to me as loyal vassals, they will feel my wrath. Their names will be obliterated and they will be flayed. Soon my House will be feared by the southron lords and they will send their women to me as a sort of appeasement gift._ Ramsay felt his cock stir again. To be surrounded by a dozen or so beautiful highborn women…Ramsay licked his lips.

"Let's march, men!" Ramsay shouted, mounting his horse. To march during the night under the guide of the moon was nothing special as wildlings had done it in the past, but as they masqueraded as brigands, the Starks probably would not be expecting them to be at their doorstep at dawn the next day. Waiting another few seconds for his men to saddle up and collect their belongings, Ramsay kicked his horse into a swift trot at the head of his army with old Ben Bones and the bitches behind him and in front of the other men. _Starving the men from a good fuck is the good decision_ , Ramsay thought. _They'll be more eager to fuck and kill when we are at Winterfell._ He needed savage, rough men in his army, not organised and dutiful soldiers who obey only the _honourable_ orders. An honourable knight wouldn't at all think about raping innocent women whereas another one of Ramsay's men, a fellow called Yellow Dick, would not hesitate to fuck a pretty girl of six. _Little girls are Yellow Dick's specialty. He would fuck them until they are unconscious and then he will wake them up…only to kill them._ Very efficient, especially in winter. In time where starvation ruled supreme, Ramsay doubted that many people would look for a missing daughter or two. They should be pleased that they have one child or two less to feed!

Usually marching into unknown land at night was madness, but the path up to Winterfell wasn't unfamiliar to Ramsay. Before the Hornwood attack occurred, it was Ramsay himself and a few trusted men who snuck out to Winterfell wearing peasant garments. They never had the chance to enter Winterfell but that's when dear Domeric's letters came in handy.

"It's awfully quiet m'lord," commented Sour Alyn as they rode a little closer to the outskirts of winter town, a village that rested in the shadows of the vast walls of Winterfell. He squinted. "I see sentries m'lord."

"We all can," muttered Ramsay. He halted. One of his bitches yelped as old Ben Bones yanked her chain roughly to a stop. A new plan slowly formed in his head. All he needed was to somehow gain access to the courtyard with half his men at the least. The more the merrier of course. He scratched his chin and smiled. Sour Alyn caught sight of his grin. "You have a plan, m'lord?" he inquired.

"A new one," smirked Ramsay, rubbing his hands together. "A better one too." He glanced over at his men and then at the moon. "We will rest an hour here," he announced, relishing at their astonished looks. "And then we will attack."

* * *

"Are you sure this is a wise idea milord?" said Damon Dance-with-Me with an uncertain expression on his face. "Perhaps your first-"

"No!" barked Ramsay. "This one is…more fitting." And an insurance plan if the first somehow failed, which was quite unlikely. He thrusted a carefully wrapped bundle into Damon's arms. Damon wrinkled his nose. "You'll ride back and give it to Robb Stark," Ramsay ordered. He could not resist a cackle. "Tell him it is a gift from the new Lord of the Dreadfort. Tell him it used to belong to a young man he once called his brother. Tell him the next gift he will receive will be the skin of his true brothers. Tell him you are just the messenger."

"Aye milord."

As Damon Dance-with-Me placed the special gift in a saddlebag and rode off to find Robb Stark and his small number of men, Ramsay turned to Yellow Dick. The man was squat with a squashed face that made his lips twist into a cross between a scowl and a grimace. Not much to look at, but a terrifying sight to peasants. "I'll be putting you in charge of a band of men," Ramsay decided. "You will be raiding and ravaging winter town. Rape all the women you like." He smiled wickedly. "Do a good job, I promise you will have first choice on highborn women in Winterfell. First choice after me of course."

Yellow Dick's squinty eyes glinted. "Aye milord. Any survivors?"

"You and your men will be the distraction. Kill some men, spare some…I'm not too particular about them. When you see smoke from Winterfell, you will know I am the Lord of Winterfell."

To avoid any unnecessary suspicion that might ruin his plan, Ramsay selected the ugliest, most malicious-looking men to join Yellow Dick. A few months ago, it would have been a direct assault that Ramsay favoured, but thanks to a pompous letter sent by Robb Stark warning the Lord of the Dreadfort that if there was one more violent attack, "House Bolton would face the wrath of House Stark." There was nothing likable about patience, but Ramsay was grudgingly willing to refuse a direct assault on Winterfell in favour of more…subtle means of entrance.

"We look like peasants," grumbled Skinner.

"You _were_ a peasant," Ramsay retorted. "I believe my late father took a shining to your flaying skills hence why you are in my service. Now, come. I will flay each and every one of you if even _one_ of you ruin my plans." Letting the threat to sink in, Ramsay gestured for his men to quietly line up near the trees and some of the walls of winter town. The sentries Sour Alyn had seen earlier have gone. Ramsay wouldn't be surprised to hear that the sentries went drinking. It seemed even the Stark sentries like a good drink once in a while. Ramsay snickered.

He carefully watched Yellow Dick and his band of men enter winter town with their weapons drawn. It was almost too easy. Once the last man disappeared into winter town, that was when the screaming began. There were triumphant shouts, the sound of singing steel, grunts of surprise and sobbing. Always sobbing. Giving the signal, Ramsay and his band of men raced to the main gates.

"Help!" Ramsay shouted alongside his yelling men. "Bandits! Bandits! There're bandits in the town! _HELP!_ " Those words felt foreign on his tongue. When did he ever beg for help? It was beneath a trueborn Bolton to beg. Then again, he wasn't begging in truth. _I will never beg for anything in truth_.

A man wearing the Stark badge appeared, bleary-eyed. "Eh?"

"Bandits!" Ramsay repeated, pretending to be afraid. "Bandits in the town! No sentries, we were taken unaware!"

The man eyed him. "Is it not cowardly of you men to come here?"

Ramsay swore he would flay that man as painfully as possible. "They took our weapons!" he lied. "Some used our own weapons against us! Can't you hear them from the town? Lord Stark will be furious if the town's set on fire!" His last words seemed to shake the man awake.

The portcullis was lifted and a couple more Stark men ran out, led by an alert-eyed stout old man with large white whiskers. "You men stay here," the old man ordered. "Do not move!" Ramsay cursed under his breath. That old dog still knew a trick or two – Ramsay knew a few more too. He waited until the men were well out of sight and turned to his band of men. "Watch out for smoke," he murmured. Without waiting for their nods of assent, Ramsay slipped through the open gates and into a courtyard. Remembering his dear dead brother's long description of a good many parts of Winterfell, Ramsay silently and blindly made his way to what he hoped was the broken tower. According to Domeric's boring letters, the most abandoned building in Winterfell was the broken tower. It would serve well as a fire bringer. Carefully grabbing a torch that flickered on the wall, Ramsay tossed it into the broken tower and watched the flames greedily lick the old, abandoned, neglected walls. Smoke slowly rose, darkening the very pale blush of dawn like a hunter advancing upon his prey.

Laughing maniacally, Ramsay hurried back to the main gate. Winking at one of his men who had caught sight of him, he pulled out one of his knives and threw it straight at the back of a guard's head. The man fell face first to the ground. If he'd not been dead from the knife, he was most certainly dead now as Ramsay's squad of men trampled on him to gain entry into Winterfell.

"COME ON MEN!" Ramsay bellowed, brandishing another knife. He turned and threw it at another guard running towards him. This time Ramsay bent over and pulled the guard's sword from the scabbard. _This will come in handy_. In weapons, Ramsay preferred the bow or even a crossbow, but a sword would have to do for now. When he manage to acquire a bow, he would be shooting Stark men left and right dead. Perhaps he would be fortunate enough to shoot Robb Stark.

Ramsay ran through courtyards and gates, slashing everyone in his path. Body after body fell like chopped down trees in a forest. It was like hunting down the peasant women in the Bolton forests again. Running with his men and dogs with their swords, knives and bows and arrows ready and hearing the sweetest sound of screaming. A thrill of excitement ran up Ramsay's spine.

Licking his lips eagerly, Ramsay went straight towards the Great Keep. He had never seen it before, but dear Domeric described it so well. _The Great Keep is the innermost castle with walls made of granite. It is connected to the armoury by a covered bridge_ , his dear brother Domeric had written.

There were six Stark guards on duty with their swords drawn. As Ramsay and his men approached, one yelled, "Who goes there?"

Ramsay rolled his eyes. Uttering a wild shout, he attacked the first guard, their swords singing as they clashed. Ramsay ducked as the guard swung his sword in the direction of Ramsay's neck. As he dodged, he kicked the guard savagely in the leg. The guard only stumbled a little, but it was all Ramsay needed. With a single swing, Ramsay brought down his sword and pushed it into the guard's chest. He yanked his sword back out and turned, just in time to stab another guard right in the back, Sour Alyn finishing him off with a savage blow to the head.

Much more refreshed than before, Ramsay left his men to deal with the two or three Stark guards remaining. There would be more guards coming, but Ramsay was confident they could be dealt with easily. All northmen were trained alike – fight honourably with no dirty tactics. Ripping off the peasant guise in one swift motion, Ramsay strode into the Great Keep, his heart pounding with exhilaration. No Lord of the Dreadfort or Red King had ever set foot in Winterfell's Great Keep as the victorious conqueror before. Two Red Kings did burn Winterfell, but what was the fun in that?

"Come out!" Ramsay called, his voice echoing eerily in the corridors. "Oh come out, Starks! You can't hide from me forever. Come out now, and you will live." He smirked. "I can promise you that." His smirk slowly dissipated as he kicked open a door only to find it was empty. By the time he kicked down most of the doors in the Great Keep, his lips had twisted into a furious snarl.

There was no Stark in sight.

* * *

 **I found this chapter difficult to write as invasions, battles and fighting scenes are not my strength and I haven't actually had much practice writing them before. I know Ramsay's plan isn't the best, but believe me, what I planned to write for his first plan was more stupid. I promise I'll try and write better infiltration, battle and fighting scenes in the future :)**

 **Spectre4hire - when you left your first review about poisoning being predictable and too easy, I was like, uh oh, just you wait until Robert and Renly's death...I promise you there won't be another poisoning incident in this story (well, I did plan _one_ more poisoning, but I'll change it) :D **


	105. Daenerys V

As every minute passed, more sweat dotted Daenerys's forehead. She grinded her teeth together to suppress another scream. She should be giving birth in her bedchamber, not on a pile of blankets on the cold stone ground in the Winterfell crypts, surrounded by tombs and statues.

Dany wanted to shut her eyes. She must still be trapped in a nightmare and in any minute, will wake up on her bed. No, what was happening…it could not be…it couldn't be real. Two Stark guards did not carry her carefully down to the crypts on Maester Luwin's orders an hour after her water broke; Alys Karstark was not told to bring as many blankets and pillows as she could possibly carry; Jojen and Gwenysse were not instructed to run to the kitchens with two more Stark guards to collect as much stored food and skins of water as they could manage to hold in hampers; and Maester Luwin most certainly did not tell Lyanna Mormont, Meera and Arthur to arm themselves and protect Rickon. For the sake of the old and the new gods! Arthur was only a boy of six!

No, it was all a nightmare.

A sharp contraction jabbed Daenerys out of her fearful thoughts. She lifted her head from the two stacked pillows and looked around quickly. Stationed closest to the entrance were four Stark guards who stared intently at the ironwood door, their swords drawn and ready. Huddling close to the statue of Lord Rickard Stark were a frightened Rickon and an oddly excited Arthur who whispered nonstop to Lady Lyanna Mormont who sat on his right. Somehow Lady Lyanna had the time to change from a gown into patched leather armour and was now sharpening her sword. On the ground next to her were an array of knives, daggers and dirks and even what appeared to be a small spiked mace. Lady Lyanna had claimed she had packed them under her clothes in her trunk before she journeyed to Winterfell. It reminded Dany of Arya. When Arya was younger, she would steal one of the boys' practice wooden swords and hide it under her clothes. Septa Mordane would end up finding it and Arya would be forced to find another hiding spot.

Daenerys smiled wanly as Meera walked up to her and sat down. "You alright?" said Meera, concerned.

"Frightened," said Dany truthfully. She had never really spoken to Meera much before as Meera was oft hunting for frogs, spending time with Jojen or training in the courtyard with Lady Lyanna whilst Dany was busy trying to manage affairs at Winterfell. "I never thought I'd be giving birth here," Daenerys continued, "or in a siege or battle. I…I never expected it."

"We were all born children of spring and summer," said Meera quietly. "When true winter comes, everything expected becomes unexpected."

Daenerys cracked a smile. "That sounds like a song."

"It is part of a song," Meera agreed. " _'The Children of Summer'_. My mother used to sing it to me when I was a child."

Another contraction pain caused Daenerys to wince. She never knew birthing a child could be so horrible. Septa Mordane had said repeatedly that a noble girl's future all gathered around birthing children. "Lord Stark's mother had given her husband four children," Septa Mordane had droned. "Lady Lorra Royce had given her husband Lord Beron Stark _seven_ children." Apparently Lady Starks had given birth to an average of four children in the past. _How?_ Daenerys winced again. She was in dire pain giving birth to _one_ child.

"Jojen received another vision," Meera murmured.

Daenerys groaned. "Why're you telling me this?" Was it another weak attempt to frighten her into a motherhouse? It wouldn't work. She was Robb's wife and it would remain that way until her death.

"Did you not wonder how organised Maester Luwin was in sending us here? It was a surprise, the bandits. We didn't expect them to come a little after midnight. Maester Luwin should be a little hesitant in his decisions but he wasn't."

"I'm in labour!" said Dany, exasperated and impatient. She moaned in agony as another shot of pain stabbed her.

"This is meant to be," said Meera patiently. "Jojen had many green dreams that revolved around the crypts. They differ but they always had one part in common: a dragon howling in pain." Her green eyes were fixed on Daenerys. "The other ah, parts, of the visions change every time, but the dragon howling in pain – that is a consistent part of Jojen's green dreams."

Oh gods. Oh no. "I am not a dragon," lied Dany. "I am Robb's wife."

Meera arched her eyebrows. "Jojen and I never keep secrets from each other. I know who you really are." She lowered her voice. "Daenerys _Targaryen_. You hide behind the Stark name, but for how long? I'm not threatening you," she said with haste. "Only warning you. Jojen is at a loss. He is ailing due to his frustration at an inability to fully decode his green dreams."

 _Please Meera, not now_. "What does it have to do with me?"

Meera's expression turned sad. "So much." She squeezed Dany's hand. "I can't tell you much more. I'm sorry."

"You told me nothing!" Daenerys growled in discomfort as the twinges of birth contractions seemed to come closer. "Absolutely nothing!"

Meera looked pained. "I'm so sorry, Daenerys Targaryen Stark," she said softly, standing up. "I shouldn't have come to talk to you. Don't worry. Jojen and I won't tell anyone the truth."

"How did you find out?" whispered Dany, her face pale.

"Jojen's green dreams, assumptions…" Meera paused. "Northmen might take a natural child or two into their households, but the bastard daughter of his wife's brother? No lord will take her into his household. Even the most honourable and good Lord Eddard Stark wouldn't do that without good reason. My father knew a second after he heard there was a Daenerys Sand in Winterfell. If you don't mind me saying, your name almost gives it all away. If Lord Stark wanted you hidden it might have been wiser to have named you Danny – a northern name."

"Does Jojen know when I will die?"

Meer was silent. "Perhaps," she said finally. Without saying another word, she went to join Jojen who stood hovering near the stone statues of Lyanna Stark and Brandon Stark. Dany stared at them. _Perhaps_ they know when she will die?

"You must relax." Maester Luwin had appeared at Daenerys's side. "Take deep breaths. It won't be long now."

"How much longer?" groaned Daenerys, her nails digging into the palms of her pale hands. "I can't bear this-!"

"It will not be long now. Soon you will have a babe in your arms."

"And then what? I will be giving birth for the rest of my life?"

Maester Luwin said nothing. "Is that not a woman's duty, my lady?" he said at last, his grey eyes bearing no expression. "Surely Septa Mordane told you? Lords need heirs and Robb Stark is no different. With winter coming, it will bring fevers, plagues…deaths." He placed a basin of clear water on the ground next to Dany. "It will be a long winter and many will die. The old, the healthy, the young. Babes oft die in winter. That is why a woman's chief duty is to bear her lord husband many children. It sounds cruel, but it is the truth we all well know. Children die young – that is why lords desire so many sons. Robb may be content with one child, but it may also be the case that he desires more children. Do not fret my lady. You don't want your child to be born in a sea of worry, now do you?"

Daenerys managed a small, forced laugh. "My child will be born into a world of war already." She quietened. "Will the bandits gain entry to Winterfell?"

Maester Luwin shook his head. "Ser Rodrik had issued orders that no one – no matter if it is a woman, child or the wounded – will enter Winterfell. Soldiers will be sent out to fight the bandits in winter town. We are all safe here."

"For how long? What if Robb is dead?"

"Calm down," soothed Maester Luwin. "You must _relax_ , my lady. Do not worry about Robb. If it will calm your nerves, I will have one of the men ride out to have a look if Robb and his men are any closer to Winterfell. I will do it the moment all the bandits are dead or captured."

"No! Do it now!" She watched as Maester Luwin sigh and shuffle to talk to one of the Stark guards. She touched her belly in hopes it would comfort her. "It'll not be long now," she said softly to herself. "It'll not be long now."

* * *

After what felt like years of agony, Daenerys finally opened her eyes. "Where's my child?" she said, her voice hoarse from hours of screaming. She attempted to sit up but slid back down almost immediately. She felt like she had no strength to even lift a finger, let alone sit up. She forced herself to sit up as no one replied.

"Where's my child?" Dany repeated. A feeling of dread brushed her heart. _No – my baby did not die. My baby did not die. My baby did not die…_ Her body protested as she struggled up more.

To her utter amazement, Maester Luwin _smiled_. "Congratulations my lady. The old gods have blessed you with twins. Twin girls."

Dany gasped in wonder. _Twins?_ She tried to remember labouring two children but her mind was all fuzzy and she was too tired to think clearly. Daenerys could only recall screaming, pain and Maester Luwin urging her to push. Visualising did not help either as Dany had her eyes closed the whole time. Her eyes widened as Lady Alys and the maester presented two sleeping babes, both wrapped in warm linen blankets. Tentatively, Daenerys lifted her arms. "May I?" she said in barely a whisper. She had held babies before – Rickon, Arthur, Gwenysse and even Bran – but never her own.

Maester Luwin handed her one of the sleeping infants. Daenerys gently rocked the baby in her arms, mesmerised by the child's tiny fingers and serene, innocent sleeping expression. "She is the younger of your twins," said Maester Luwin with a tired smile. "Your daughters were born an hour apart from each other."

"I do not remember giving birth to them," breathed Dany. The maester's smile seemed more strained – only for a second. Daenerys looked up from her sleeping younger daughter and beamed at her good-siblings that gathered around her and Lady Alys to look at the babies.

"They are so small," remarked Arthur, looking at the baby in Dany's arms with curiosity. "Is it a boy?"

Dany shook her head. "Both are girls." Her smile widened. "You are now their uncle, Arthur." She grinned at Rickon. "You too, Rickon."

Arthur wrinkled his nose. "Both girls!" He pouted. "Girls cannot fight."

"Yes we can!" called Lady Lyanna indignantly, walking over to them. "I wager I can win against you the next time we spar!"

 _Would Robb want his daughters trained for combat?_ Daenerys pondered as she listened to Arthur and Lyanna Mormont bicker for probably the thirtieth or even the fortieth – if not even more – time. Daenerys hadn't really thought much about her child's future. Almost certainly like all first mothers, she'd assumed that her child would be a boy. Dany did consider that her child could be potentially a girl, but she had never really mulled over on whether her daughter should receive the extensive education that Dany herself was given or if it should include perhaps a class or two of sparring.

"My lady?" Maester Luwin's voice brought Dany back from her thoughts.

"Nothing," said Daenerys, managing a smile. "I was only wondering what Robb would want for our daughters."

"They are beautiful," said Jojen, who had also walked up to her with Meera. He studied both of the babies intently. "You are a lucky woman, Daenerys Stark." He smiled faintly as the babe in Dany's arms stirred and opened her eyes. The infant had pretty violet eyes, just like Robb's. _And mine_. Daenerys's fingers caressed her daughter's soft brown hair. She looked at her other daughter in Lady Alys's arms. The older of the twins also had brown hair like her sister, though a darker shade. _Does she have purple eyes too? Or are they Stark grey?_ It would be quite delightful for both the girls to look almost identical with their brown hair and violet eyes. _It is strange though_ , contemplated Dany, _that Maester Luwin did not tell me that I'd be having twins._ Was the maester even aware she'd been pregnant with twins?

Daenerys couldn't resist a yawn. The baby whimpered.

"You must rest," said Maester Luwin gently, taking the baby from her. "You are still exhausted from your ordeal."

"Is it normal?" Dany asked, her eyes slowly fluttering shut. "For women to be a little tired after giving birth?"

Maester Luwin nodded. "Perfectly normal my lady. Now sleep."

* * *

"…so what do we do?"

"It's not bandits-"

"We can't just hide here like cowards!"

"How did they get in?"

Daenerys rubbed her eyes and stood up for the first time in two days. She still felt drowsy, but in better spirits than before.

"You are awake," said Maester Luwin, hurrying to her. He handed her a slice of bread and a waterskin. "Broths would have been more suitable," he admitted, his eyes studying Daenerys. "Much more suitable, but as we won't be venturing into the kitchens or our chambers for a few more days, bread will have to suffice."

"Why?" Daenerys frowned as she hungrily bit into the bread. She swallowed a mouthful and inquired, "Are the bandits not subdued yet?"

"We have made a grievous error," said Maester Luwin gently. "It wasn't a band of brigands that attacked winter town; it was a Bolton army."

Daenerys almost choked on her bread. "What?" She quickly drank some water. A _Bolton_ army? She had the urge to throw up what she just swallowed as a clear vision of a flayed Robb appeared in her mind. "Domeric would never declare war on Winterfell," Dany said adamantly. "He lived here for most of his life and thinks of Robb as his brother – why would he attack us?" A chilly shiver scuttled down her spine. "Did Lord Bolton command him to?" she asked fearfully. "Is he here, at the main gates at the head of an army?"

"No," spoke Meera who took the bread from Dany. "Both of them – Lord Roose and Domeric – are dead. It's the Bastard of Bolton at our doorstep."

Who? Dany failed to connect a face and name to the Bolton bastard. She found it hard to believe a man such as Lord Roose Bolton had a bastard – was he even a man who had moments of lust?

"Ramsay Snow," said Maester Luwin, glimpsing Dany's bewilderment. "A cruel and vile man. He now calls himself Ramsay Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort. He also claims to be Lord of Winterfell too."

"How do you know?" Daenerys asked. Maester Luwin stepped to his right and nodded in the direction of the statues. Lying on the ground was Ser Rodrik Cassel, his leather armour covered in blood.

"He was stabbed by the Bastard himself," said the maester quietly. "Ser Rodrik was sprung upon by three or four of the Bastard's men and he managed to defeat two of them before the Bastard stabbed him. Ser Rodrik fell and the Bastard and his men left to hunt down other Stark men. Ser Rodrik was very lucky to have not been caught by any other Bolton man when he came here. I managed to bandage his wounds and stop the blood, but there's nothing much else I can do for him. He has been asleep since."

"Will he live?"

"Only time can tell, my lady."

"Will this Ramsay Snow find us here?"

"Again, only time can tell. The Bastard of Bolton may wish to eventually come and investigate the crypts, or he may have no interest in it at all. However…it will not be long before we run out of food. There is ah, plenty for now, but if we must hide here for another month…" Maester Luwin shook his head.

Suppressing a shudder, Dany went to join Lady Alys who was teaching Rickon a song. She was also holding both the twins in her arms.

"You're good with children," Daenerys commented, as Lady Alys placed one of the twins in Dany's eager arms. "What song is it you are singing?" Alys beamed at her shyly. " _The Sun in Winter_ ," she answered. "It is part of the _Songs of Winter_. It's a northern song and a family song too. My father told me that the _Songs of Winter_ was written and sung by our founder Karlon Stark himself."

"Really?"

Alys nodded. "A thousand years ago Karlon destroyed a rebel lord's army and the rebel lord himself – during _winter_. It was a bitter winter yet Karlon won. For his success and bravery, his father, the King in the North, granted him lands – the rebel lord's lands in fact. Many people think Karlon Stark was a warrior; he was a lover of northern songs too. An odd combination, but apparently after he retired from the battlefield due to old age, he started writing songs. _The Sun in Winter_ 's a great favourite of mine father's."

Before Daenerys could remark further, pain stabbed her stomach. She winced, but brushed the sting away.

"Did you decide on names for your daughters?" questioned Lady Alys.

"I didn't think I would need two," said Daenerys, her smile widening as the baby in her arms stared at her with interest. It was the older of the twins and she had the grey eyes of her grandfather Lord Stark. "If it was only one, Robb and I agreed to name her Rhaena…after my mother." In truth, she and Robb created the name to honour both her mother Rhaella and his late aunt Lady Lyanna Stark.

"Why not Ashara and Rhaena? I'm certain Lady Stark will be delighted for her granddaughter to bear her name."

Glancing at Lady Lyanna Mormont reminded Dany why. The Mormont girl had made it perfectly clear more than once that she didn't like her and was not happy at Dany's name choices for her babe. If a ten year old girl disliked the name, what would the northern lords think?

As more pain shot through Dany's stomach, she mumbled absently, "Excellent idea, Lady Alys." She winced and handed the baby to Lady Alys. She stood up and began to sway unsteadily.

"Daenerys?" said Lady Alys worriedly. "Are you unwell?"

"I…" Dany's vision blurred. "I…" She stumbled, almost crashing into a statue of one of Lord Rickard Stark's predecessors. She felt someone take hold of her arms and steadily guide her away. _Did the winter winds venture here? Why do I feel cold and weak?_ It reminded Dany of the times she fell ill with fever. Dany touched her forehead. She was burning and the pains in her stomach haven't ceased. Was it a fever or stomach sickness? It couldn't possibly be both – could it? Another awful thought struck Daenerys. What if it was a contagious illness? Her babies! Plagues and fevers always found their first victims in young infants and old men. My own babes are only a day old…

Dany felt herself being gently pushed back onto her makeshift bed. She looked up and saw Maester Luwin's grey eyes staring back at her. "What is it?" Daenerys said weakly. "A fever? Stomach sickness?"

"Stomach pains?" inquired Maester Luwin.

Dany nodded. Maester Luwin's expression grew grave. To Daenerys's dismay, the maester softly uttered her worst fears. "Childbed fever." Daenerys was frozen with shock. She felt hot tears trickle down her pale cheeks. It was childbed fever that had claimed her mother Queen Rhaella Targaryen; now it would capture her too. Dany wiped her tears away. "How long do I have?"

"A few days of agonising pain or a few hours."

More tears flowed down Dany's cheeks. She glanced at her twin girls. Both the girls looked content in Alys Karstark's arms. "I only know them for a day, if not a little less," Daenerys whispered to Maester Luwin. Her eyes hazed, now from her tears. "I will never know my daughters. I will never see them again."

"They will never forget you my lady," murmured Maester Luwin, plumping up one of her pillows. "They'll never forget their mother who named them."

Names.

 _I could name them Ashara and Rhaena as Lady Alys suggested, but no one will like it except Robb and Lady Stark_. Dany tried to wrack her brain for northern girl names that'd be accepted. "Lysara," she said finally, her last remnants of strength sapping away from her. She leant back against the stack of pillows. "Lysara…" she said again, her eyes fluttering dangerously shut. "Lysara…and Alysanne."

* * *

 **Well, uni started and it was a hectic week. Uni during the days and work in the afternoons. By the time I'd get home, I'd just want to sleep. Anyway, typed like mad today. Yes, Daenerys is dead. I never liked Daenerys in the TV show or the books (though Daenerys in the books was more tolerable) and I planned since I started this story for her to die. I found out that women could die days later from childbed fever, not just a few hours after labour, so I thought: why not have Dany die like that?**


	106. Catelyn IX

"MURDER!" Lysa was screeching at the top of her lungs. "MURDER!" She then collapsed back into her chair, weeping hysterically. Catelyn wanted to move over to comfort her crying sister, but her feet refused to move.

"Your Grace!" Her uncle the Blackfish appeared at her side, urgency in his blue eyes and his fingers gripping the hilt of his sword. "You must leave immediately!" His eyes fell upon Catelyn's half-filled wine goblet. "Did you drink it?"

Catelyn nodded, unable to speak.

Uncle Brynden sighed with relief. "Thank the Seven you are alive, Cat," he said gruffly. "If you were poisoned too…" He shook his head. "I wouldn't rest until the one responsible was caught and executed."

"Your allegiance is to the king first," Catelyn reminded him kindly. Shaking like a leaf, she stood up and surveyed the High Hall. There was widespread panic and fear. Men were brandishing their swords and women huddling in groups looking afraid. Catelyn felt someone tug at her skirts. She looked down and saw a scared Minisa attaching herself to her.

"Your Grace," Uncle Brynden said again. "You must leave. Allow Lady Arryn to deal with this matter – you must go!"

"What about my husband?" Catelyn felt a lump in her throat. Her _late_ husband now. Robert was dead and their son Orys was now the king. "We…we cannot just leave him here," she said, swallowing her fearful thoughts. "He is – was – the king and he must be entombed under the Great Sept of Baelor as is proper."

"There are traitors in our midst Cat! You need not fear about the late king; I'm certain he will be entombed under the Great Sept of Baelor once everything here has settled down. The best plan is for you and your children to leave for a secure place, perhaps the North."

Catelyn shook her head. "You know as well as I do that the safest place in all of the Seven Kingdoms is here in the Eyrie. Besides, with Robert dead, Orys must be crowned in King's Landing. We must leave for King's Landing."

"Are you certain?" Uncle Brynden sounded unsure.

"Yes." Catelyn was firm in her decision. "Orys must be crowned. I'll help in any way I can to find who poisoned my late husband – once Orys is crowned the king. Orys is still young and not many lords will want a young king." She couldn't help glance at the body of her dead husband. Lord Stark knelt beside him, tears in his eyes. Catelyn knew her good-brothers well. Renly would have shed a tear but his brother Stannis would not. Neither would have wept as openly as Lord Stark, the very man Robert always viewed as a true brother. Sensing Catelyn's gaze, Eddard Stark looked up and his grey eyes met hers.

"My lords," Lord Stark said loudly, standing up and turning to the lords, ladies, knights and other guests in the High Hall. "My ladies, sers, King Robert of House Baratheon the First of His Name is dead. We have a new king." He turned. Catelyn watched his eyes – now determined – travel to her son Orys, who had maintained a solemn expression though he was paler due to shock. "His Grace, Orys of House Baratheon," Lord Stark declared steadily, "the First of His Name, the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms." He bowed at Orys. Catelyn gazed at the people in the High Hall a second time, and to her relief, everyone present bowed or curtsied.

All except the Queen of Thorns.

"Thank you Lord Stark." Orys's voice was clear and firm. "My late father spoke of you highly and I will view your counsel greatly too." He hesitated momentarily. "My father's-" He broke off as the High Hall's great doors banged open and a boy of fifteen ran in. His tunic was half pale purple and half white, splashed with two knights combatant with swords, counter-charged. Catelyn squinted at him. There was something familiar about him…

"Bryen?" said Orys, frowning. "Bryen Farring?"

"My prince!" gasped the young man, rushing forward to the dais as many lords and ladies parted to make way for him out of curiosity. Catelyn noted the boy had sweat pouring down his face, strands of his dark hair matted against his forehead. Catelyn motioned for a servant to come forward. "Give him a cup of ale," she told him, nodding at the exhausted young man. _Bryen Farring_. Catelyn suddenly knew why he looked so familiar. Bryen Farring was one of Lord Stannis's squires along with one of Lord Seaworth's sons (most of Lord Seaworth's sons seemed to have squired for Stannis Baratheon) and the Redwyne heir. Why was Bryen here? Did he even rest on his journey here from King's Landing? Why would he come to the Eyrie when Stannis was ruling on Robert's behalf – well now Orys's behalf – back in King's Landing. It didn't make any sense. Unless…a chill seized Catelyn by the throat. _There is trouble in King's Landing_. No, not trouble. _War_. Why else would a squire to the King's Hand be sent to the Eyrie at such a time?

"My prince," Bryen Farring said again, "where's the king?" His blue eyes fell on Robert's body. "By the gods!"

Orys nodded grimly. "My father is dead, Bryen."

As the servant hurried out and gave Bryen a cup of ale, Catelyn carefully gazed at the faces of the more prominent lords and ladies. One of them was responsible for poisoning Robert – could the same person have incited a rebellion or uprising in King's Landing too?

"The Dornish…" gasped Bryen. "The Dornish have overrun and taken King's Landing!" Catelyn slid a wary glance at Lady Olenna Tyrell who had remained seated comfortably the whole time like a wizened toad sitting on a lily pad, leisurely waiting to catch its next meal. Frogs and toads weren't common sights in King's Landing, but they were in the Riverlands. _Why is she not worried the Dornish might have invaded the Reach?_ Catelyn wondered. "The Dornish army had invaded the Stormlands," Bryen went on, "or so everyone had thought. When the news reached King's Landing, Lord Stannis sent Prince Oberyn Martell and Lord Swann of Stonehelm to deal with the matter. I suspect Prince Oberyn was sent to have his loyalty to the Iron Throne tested or something.

"In any case, the two lords went and the next day Prince Oberyn returned with at least a hundred men, if not more. Prince Oberyn declared the king – I mean the late king – an usurper and claimed King's Landing for…" Bryen hesitated. "For his true king, Aegon Targaryen the Sixth of His Name."

Shouts of surprise, astonishment and denial broke the silence. Catelyn too was shocked. _Aegon Targaryen?_ She had not heard that name in years. Aegon was the infant son of Rhaegar and Elia, the babe whose head was dashed against the wall by the Mountain. "He is not real," Catelyn murmured to herself. Minisa looked up at her inquisitively. "He can't be real," Catelyn said more softly. When Robert had first arrived in King's Landing, he was presented with the bodies of Princess Elia, Rhaenys and Aegon all wrapped in crimson cloaks. Aegon Targaryen was dead – unless the babe the Mountain murdered was _not_ Aegon Targaryen…

Catelyn's thoughts buzzed in her mind as Orys demanded more answers from Bryen Farring. Catelyn had only met Elia once in the tourney at Harrenhal but the two of them had never spoken to each other beyond the customary greetings, yet she remembered Elia Martell's gentleness and kindness. Elia Martell would never condemn another woman's son to a horrible death to save her own…would she? _I would do anything to save my children_ , Catelyn reflected, _but having another child murdered to save even one of mine?_ Even if it was war and she was moments from being killed, Catelyn couldn't imagine dying peacefully knowing that at least one of her children was still alive. It was too cruel. _I am a mother first though_ , Catelyn pondered. She should be a queen first and a mother second and by the Seven she had tried. It never felt comfortable.

"No one would follow a false dragon!" a Vale lord bellowed.

"Clearly the Martells have," another lord – possibly from the Stormlands – had retorted back. "I must leave at once! My lands are in bloody danger!" There was a thunderous scramble as the lords of the Stormlands present all stood up and ran to the doors, yelling for servants to prepare for their departure. It was rude but it was understandable. Catelyn glanced at Lysa who was gasping and sobbing quite wildly on her chair. Lysa had always been prone to hysterics, but now was not an appropriate time. Careful not to attract too much attention, Catelyn gently moved her daughter Minisa's hands from her gown and slowly edged to the empty chair next to her sister. Lysa didn't even notice Catelyn there until Catelyn touched her lightly on the arm.

"You must retire to your chambers, Lysa," said Catelyn quietly.

"Murder…" Lysa whimpered, her watery blue eyes meeting Catelyn's. "There's been a murder in my castle…"

"You _are_ still safe. The Knights of the Vale will always protect you. If it by…um, chance, it comes to war, you will be the most protected of us all."

Something in Lysa snapped. "My children!" she said suddenly. A few lords and ladies looked up at her. "They must not return to Storm's End! I must send a note to Lord Stannis, telling him he'll no longer be guardian to Sweetrobin and Alyssa. I want all three of my children to remain with me."

"Sansa is Harrold's wife," Catelyn reminded her.

"I will not have her living at Ironoaks! Lady Waynwood is a schemer and she'll want her beloved ward Lord of the Eyrie through Sansa. They will scheme and in a few days, they will have my dear boy murdered." Lysa grabbed Catelyn's hands. "You are the queen, Cat. You can convince the High Septon to set aside the match. It hasn't been consummated yet and Sansa deserves better than a knight. You can also tell your good-brother that my Sweetrobin will never wed his ugly daughter either. He'll already receive Alyssa as a good-daughter – he won't rid himself of a hideous daughter through marriage to Sweetrobin."

Catelyn's lips tightened as she tried to remain patient. "You are unwell, Sister. You've been through shock." It seemed Lysa was more in distress than she was – even though the dead bodies belonged to her husband and a good-brother. "Rest. I will be leaving for King's Landing with my sons. We will speak again next time I come here." Catelyn doubted Lysa would set foot in King's Landing again.

* * *

"Absolutely not," Orys said sharply. "You and Minisa will remain here until we have rid King's Landing of all its traitors."

Catelyn gave Minisa one last hug and gently pushed her towards Lady Sansa. It would've been preferable to leave Minisa with a trusted adult, but Lysa was in no condition to care for children. Sansa was still young, but she could be a sister of a sort to her young cousin. Catelyn turned to Ormund, who was arguing with Orys. _More like whining_ , Catelyn thought as she saw Ormund's pout.

"Orys is right," Catelyn said gently to her younger son. "It is better for you and your sister to stay here a little longer. Think of it as an adventure you'll have with a few friends. Your father was fostered here when he was younger too." Better to think positively. Deep inside, Catelyn was aware that keeping Ormund secure in the Eyrie was a safety precaution in case…in case Orys was killed.

Ormund sighed heavily. "Alright," he relented grudgingly. "At least you'll have plenty of war stories to tell when we see you again!"

"You will continue your training and education here," Catelyn instructed. "You will have Ser Garth training you here."

"Yes Mother."

"Do _not_ run off."

"Yes Mother."

Catelyn embraced Ormund. "Take care of your sister," she whispered. Ormund nodded when they broke away. Catelyn took a deep breath and joined Orys back in the High Hall. King for less than half a day, Orys was already surrounded at all times by a number of lords and at least one sworn knight from the Kingsguard. It was Ser Barristan Selmy who was accompanying Orys now. When Catelyn stood at Orys's side, the talking lords fell silent.

"Condolences for your loss, Your Grace," Lord Royce spoke gravely. "If you do not mind me asking my queen, will you be staying here with your children?"

"No my lord," Catelyn responded. "I will be with the king."

The lords began arguing again. The majority were in favour of Catelyn staying in the Eyrie for her own safety.

"Mother," Orys said quietly, "we will be riding to King's Landing. We are under the assumption that what Oberyn Martell said was wrong. There's no Aegon and Oberyn only claimed there was as an excuse for a Dornish invasion. The Dornish have no fleet, but they have strong connections to powerful and noble families in the Free Cities that may aid them by giving them ships. Dorne has no allies but to our knowledge, the Dornish are in control of King's Landing and it won't be long before they control all of the Crownlands."

"You are my son," said Catelyn stubbornly.

"I'll be surrounded by good advisors and seasoned warriors. Besides, I can put my sword fighting skills to the test."

"Lyanna-"

"Princess Lyanna will be safe," Lord Tyrell interrupted genially. He puffed out his chest. "I will lead my men to rescue the princess, Your Grace. Princess Lyanna is my good-daughter after all. Why not travel to Highgarden, Your Grace? You can have a companion in my mother. My mother plans to journey to Highgarden too. I can assure you that Highgarden is as safe as the Eyrie."

"An excellent idea," said Orys suddenly. "Once Lyanna is rescued, she'll be sent to Highgarden to join you." He nodded at Lord Tyrell. "Thank you my lord."

"Why not the Riverlands?" questioned Lord Blackwood. "Perhaps Her Grace is reminiscing of her girlhood home. I will be honoured to escort Her Grace there. It will be a privilege too."

"Highgarden is closer to Dornish lands," said Lord Stark uncertainly. "Maybe it will be best for Her Grace to leave for the Riverlands. I would offer the hospitality of Winterfell to Your Grace-" he nodded at Catelyn "-but the North's embroiled in a war against the wildlings and it will not be safe for you there." He turned to the other lords. "Are there any objections in Lord Blackwood escorting Her Grace the Queen Mother to Riverrun?"

Lord Tyrell looked as if he was about to object but his mother gave him a hard jab in the ribs with her lacquer black walking cane.

"You are a woman, Your Grace," said Lord Royce as gently as he could. "War is no place for a woman. It is better for you to be safe at Riverrun. Once the Dornish are dealt with, a raven will be sent to you. I swear on my honour there will be no coronation until you are at King's Landing."

Catelyn shook her head. "It is kind of you Lord Royce, but I desire my son to be crowned as soon as possible, with or without me. I'll be satisfied with your word of honour that the moment the Dornish are defeated, Orys will be crowned king. I will be content with that, my lord."

"Very well Your Grace. Perhaps it will be best for us to depart now?"

Catelyn watched helplessly as Orys nodded. "Lord Stark," she said, as the lords began to separate to see to their individual baggage. Lord Stark stopped and gave her a sad smile. "My condolences, Your Grace," he said to her. "You just lost your husband and your niece's wedding was cut short. Now your son is taken away by his new advisors. You can trust Lord Royce and the other lords, Your Grace. They want your son safe on the Iron Throne with a crown on his head."

"Please, call me Catelyn," Catelyn said impatiently. "Will you be accompanying Orys to King's Landing, Lord Stark?"

Lord Stark paused, his grey eyes darkening like grey storm clouds. "I am afraid not," he said finally, to Catelyn's bewilderment. "King Robert was my best friend, a brother even. You know I will do anything for his son. I'll not be going south – I plan to head north with Ashara and Arya. We will go back to Winterfell."

"Why?" Confusion almost turned to anger. "Orys is your king and good-son! He needs you now!"

"I will be returning to gather men," said Lord Stark patiently. "It takes my men much longer to gather and march south than the men from say, the Reach. If it's a Dornish rebellion, it can be subdued easily and my men will go home. If it is what that young man Farring claimed, Westeros will be plunged into another war. One that may continue when winter comes. Even if it doesn't come to war, alliances of old and new must be made and everyone prepared. If what Farring said was true and there is a true Targaryen on his way to King's Landing, King Robert's death – and Renly's – were no accidents. This Aegon Targaryen has allies. The Martells of course, and possibly others. How a Martell could poison King Robert when there is no Dornishman in sight…" Lord Stark shook his head. "I'm afraid intrigue is not to my strength, Your – I mean, Catelyn."

Her anger subsided, Catelyn said softly. "Thank you Lord Stark."

* * *

"Is something on your mind, Your Grace?"

Catelyn looked at the Lord of Raventree Hall. Lord Tytos Blackwood was a tall and thin man with a close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard, a hook nose and long hair. He was garbed in black and red (the colours of House Blackwood) and wore a magnificent raven-feather cloak. From what Catelyn recalled, Lord Tytos was a good and honourable man, a fair fighter and chief rival to Lord Jonos Bracken. He also had three squires, one of whom was her nephew Hoster.

"I am concerned for my son," Catelyn admitted, slowing her palfrey down to a steady trot as Lord Blackwood rode next to her. "He learnt plenty from my good-brother, but what use is theory and politics when it is his crown at stake?"

Lord Blackwood chuckled. "My lady wife never stops worrying about our sons and daughter. You are probably aware of that."

"Indeed." Catelyn smiled. Lady Blackwood was one of her favourite ladies. "It's kind of you to allow your lady wife to continue serving me my lord."

"Anything for my liege lord's sister."

"My younger daughter Minisa, will need companions around her own age very soon." Catelyn didn't miss the tiniest flicker of pleasure in Lord Tytos's eyes. "It'll be an honour for your daughter Lady Bethany, to be one of Minisa's companions. I heard from your lady wife that Bethany is a gentle girl."

"She is," acknowledged Lord Blackwood. "She'd never been more than a day's ride from Raventree Hall. An incredible honour Your Grace, but I'm worried that my Bethany will be a little intimidated at attending court. All her life she dwelled in Raventree Hall, praying, singing, dancing and sewing."

The familiar sight of the inn at the crossroads augmented as Catelyn and Lord Blackwood's party rode closer towards it. _Orys must have ridden ahead,_ pondered Catelyn as she dismounted her horse. _Hopefully he rests at Castle Darry for a little while before he continues his journey to King's Landing._ Catelyn didn't know if she wished Orys to prove himself a man by spilling enemy blood for the first time or for the Dornish rebellion to be suppressed before he even arrived at the city.

"We will be at Riverrun soon," Lord Blackwood assured Catelyn, dismounting from his own steed. "My squires will take care of our horses. Come, Your Grace. It is time you rest, drink and eat." _I'm not tired!_ Catelyn wanted to yell. She was not hungry or parched either. However, like the proper lady she was raised to be, she only nodded and smiled. Catelyn's smile promptly disappeared the second she'd stepped into the familiar inn. Something felt wrong. Very wrong indeed.

Masha Heddle was still the same, hurrying around with plates and flagons, still chewing her sourleaf. It wasn't the serving boy either. _It's the travellers_. On a first glance, Catelyn glimpsed olive-skinned and dark-skinned Dornishmen, men from the Reach wearing badges of House Tyrell and to her utter discomfit the Queen of Thorns herself. Catelyn turned to Lord Blackwood. "My lord-"

"Your Grace." Lady Olenna rose and hobbled towards her. All the other men of the Reach present stood up too. To Catelyn's horror, the Dornishmen in suit, also followed. A malicious gleam appeared in Lady Olenna's beady eyes. "Your Grace," Lady Olenna said again. "You looked tired – why not come and sit with me to rest for a bit?" She grabbed Catelyn's arm with her gaunt thin claws. For an old, small woman, Lady Olenna had a surprisingly strong grip.

"My lady," said Lord Blackwood warningly. "Please release the queen mother."

Lady Olenna looked bored. "Obara Sand! Be useful for once."

Lord Blackwood sputtered and slumped to the ground, his blood trickling out. Catelyn whipped around and saw a big-boned woman yanking a spear from Lord Blackwood's back. The tip was coated in blood.

"You killed him!" Catelyn gasped. "Why?" Lady Olenna's iron grasp on her arm tightened. "Let's not state the obvious," Lady Olenna said smoothly. "By now, one of Obara's sisters would've already dealt with Blackwood's men. We'll be leaving for the Crownlands where the true king's _very_ eager to meet you. Maybe your son will be there too." Catelyn grew cold. "Now, Lady Catelyn." Lady Olenna fixed her beady eyes on Catelyn. "Will you come quietly?"

* * *

 **Just to clarify, I don't like Jon Snow or Daenerys (I do find Jon more tolerable though - was really cheering him on in the scene in Season 7 Episode 3 when he was talking to Dany in Dragonstone though) as I find them overrated. I'm sorry if you are offended. I actually thought Aegon Targaryen surviving the Sack of King's Landing highly unlikely, but I do like to think of him as a better Targaryen alternative to the Iron Throne than Daenerys.**


	107. Robb V

Staring at the revolting pile of human skin on the ground in front of him, Robb felt ill. He swallowed deeply as he heard the sound of some of his men retching in bushes and at the bottom of trees nearby. Suppressing a shudder, Robb looked at the fair-haired man who delivered the…gift. "Are you certain?"

"Aye milord," the man replied. "It is a gift from the new Lord of the Dreadfort. Lord Bolton said it used to belong to a young man you once called your brother. I am to also tell you milord that the next gift you'll receive will be the skins of your true brothers." He added hastily, "I'm just the messenger milord."

 _It used to belong to a young man you once called your brother_.

How could that have happened?

Domeric…

"Who is the new Lord of the Dreadfort?" said Robb quietly.

"Ramsay Bolton," said the man promptly.

Robb had never heard of a Ramsay Bolton before. Perhaps Maester Luwin was right all along, assuming it was Lord Roose Bolton's bastard who led the brigands to attack the Hornwood lands. If there was a new Lord of the Dreadfort, it meant that both Roose and Domeric Bolton were dead.

"There's no Ramsay Bolton," said Ecton Cassel, one of Ser Rodrik's cousins. He walked up to Robb, wrinkling his nose as he glanced at the pile of flayed skin. "To my knowledge my lord, there's only Ramsay Snow, the Bastard of Bolton. He's no true Bolton lord, my lord."

"He is the last of House Bolton," said the man patiently. "By that right, he is the Lord of the Dreadfort."

"Unless he was legitimised, he is still a bastard," Robb ruled. "No matter now. I name this Ramsay Snow, or Ramsay Bolton, or whatever he calls himself, the one responsible for the havoc in the Hornwood. He will be caught and executed for all his crimes." He turned to his men. "Men! We will march in five minutes!"

"Where to?" inquired Ecton.

Robb hesitated. The Dreadfort or Winterfell? This Ramsay Snow claimed he'd flay Arthur and Rickon. He already killed and flayed his own brother – killing two children would be no issue for him. However, what if Ramsay Snow was lying? If he was holed up in the Dreadfort, it would be a perfect opportunity to head to the Dreadfort and attempt to arrest and execute Ramsay. Robb dismissed the plan at once. Last time the Starks laid siege to the Dreadfort, it lasted two years until the Boltons inside surrendered.

"My lord?" prompted Ecton.

"Winterfell," said Robb swiftly. "We return to Winterfell. Hopefully by the time we arrive, we are able to secure Winterfell's defences."

* * *

The speedy journey home was full of sore silence. Robb kept an alert eye on all his surroundings, watchful for any possible bandit attack. His men murmured to each other at times, as they glanced around uneasily. Dealing with the bandits at Hornwood was a success and everyone was looking forward to returning home – to prepare defences for a possible siege though?

Robb glanced at the fair-haired messenger from the Dreadfort. Was he exactly what he said he was? A messenger? Odd that a messenger would remain unfazed when glimpsing the gruesome parcel he was sent to deliver. Robb had seen a few Bolton servants before, but they had always remained silent. What if this servant was not a plain messenger? What if he was a bloodthirsty servant?

"You may return to the Dreadfort," Robb said suddenly. His men stared at him, surprised. "Your master is waiting for a response is he not?"

"Aye," said the messenger uncertainly.

"Tell him…" Robb wracked his mind for something threatening to say. "I want you to tell him that…that winter is coming," he finished lamely.

"Milord, I am but a messenger-"

"Go," ordered Robb. He turned to three men. "Ensure that this man returns to the Dreadfort in one piece."

"Why not keep him as a hostage?" suggested another soldier.

"Ramsay Snow killed and flayed his own brother," said Robb loudly. "He won't care if we kill his messenger. He probably even thinks we will."

"Then we send his body back to Ramsay! It'll show him we are not afraid of his threats!" A few other men nodded in agreement.

Robb gestured for the three men to escort the messenger away. Once they had ridden a short distance away, Robb addressed his men. "We do not even know if Ramsay Snow is at the Dreadfort," he said calmly. "There is no point in killing the messenger and having his body sent to the Dreadfort if Ramsay isn't there. It will be us the fools in that situation. Better to send the messenger there alive. Besides, it will give the three men a chance to survey the Dreadfort and its surroundings if anything unexpected is to happen."

"You do not know the Boltons," said another older soldier darkly. "You are still a green boy. A child of summer. What do you know of war against the Boltons?"

Robb frowned at him. "Houses Stark and Bolton have been at peace for years. I was told that by my father."

"A Bolton is a Bolton. Deceit and lies slither on their skin and treason grows in their black hearts. No Bolton will ever be a true ally to House Stark. It's good that Lord Stark terminated his daughter's marriage to that Bolton. She'd be dead once she birthed a Bolton who'd be used against you."

"Domeric Bolton-"

"All Boltons are the same," the man cut in harshly. "Sly, evil, mad, bloodthirsty. Their servants are no better. That messenger you let go – he probably enjoys the art of flaying alongside the Bastard of Bolton. Don't you recall the butchery in the Hornwood? It was the work of that bastard and his mad friends! I told you and all these men" – he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the other soldiers – "I was laughed at and advised to be quiet."

"My apologies," said Robb, specked with mild annoyance. "If you think that I'd ever forget about the Hornwood, you are mistaken. Do you think I will forget the sight of the mangled bodies of men, women and children in the village? All those deaths – including two dozen or so Hornwood men _and_ Daryn Hornwood."

The older soldier fell silent.

"You did what was right my lord," said Ecton Cassel loyally. "You had all of the brigands we could find rounded up and executed them. Even when they pleaded, you struck their heads off."

Robb would rather not remember that moment. As he resumed the journey to Winterfell, his thoughts wandered back to the Hornwood. It was his first time on a battlefield, even though it was more of a skirmish than an actual battle. As was expected, there were a lot of blood and bodies in their varying stages of decay. In the villages, food was stolen, livestock killed and precious trinkets looted. There were bandits still pillaging the Hornwood when Robb and his men arrived. Some attempted to run; others fought. The majority were captured and dragged to the courtyard of the Hornwood for justice and in the traditional style of House Stark, and many other northern lords, it was Robb who executed them. He'd been more than ready to be merciful, but the sight of the mangled bodies…it sentenced all of the bandits to death.

None of Robb's men objected.

Robb remembered Ecton Cassel and a Hornwood man putting a lump of wood fashioned like an execution block on the ground in front of him. One by one, each prisoner was pushed forward, their heads roughly forced down onto the block of wood. Robb recalled his hands shaking badly when he gripped his sword. He had stabbed brigands earlier that day, but it was his first time executing someone. He could still intensely remember saying in a slightly unstable voice, "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar and the First Men, the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Robb of House Stark, acting Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die." He'd then swing his sword high and strike it down, decapitating the criminal.

At first, it took Robb a few attempts to cleanly behead a bandit; by the time the eighth criminal was brought forward, no excess blood from the brigand would be splattering on Robb's armour. After the hour of executions, Robb had felt sick. He had smiled wanly when Lady Donella Hornwood thanked him for his aid.

There was no glory in executing criminals.

* * *

"Where's Barthogan?" said Ecton suddenly.

 _Who?_

"Barthogan Brash-Head," said Ecton, looking around. Robb did not answer. He had already forgotten who Barthogan was. A bad habit he'd planned to remedy a second he arrived at Winterfell. "He said he had to piss."

"Well maybe he's gone to…relieve himself," said Robb uncomfortably. "There's not many trees around and it might take him a while to find one he could…piss at. Maybe a bush." He blushed as a few of his men looked at him. One shrugged. "It is a cold morning," a bald-headed soldier grunted. "Brash-Head is probably taking a while to piss. Nothing to fret about, Cassel. He'll catch up to us."

"He went ahead of us," Robb pointed out. "There are still trees near the winter town. We'll probably meet up with Barthogan eventually." He bit into his apple – probably one of the last pieces of fruit left in his saddlebag – and listened to some of the other soldiers talk amongst each other in lowered voices. In a few minutes, they would continue their march to Winterfell.

"Something on your mind, my lord?" Ecton asked quietly.

"Daryn Hornwood," said Robb honestly. Out of all the men Robb took with him to the Hornwood, he liked Ecton Cassel the best. "He died defending his lands, his home, his mother. His father is fighting the wildlings at the Wall and will be more than devastated at the loss of his only son."

"You do not need to blame yourself my lord. Lord Daryn Hornwood was dead by the time we arrived."

"Lord Karstark will be aggravated too. With Daryn's death, he was robbed of a good-son. What will I tell Lady Alys? Your betrothed is dead?"

"Lady Alys will wish to hear the truth."

Robb was silent. Lady Alys was pleasant and well-mannered as expected and a affable guest at Winterfell, but how would she react to the news? He polished off his apple and announced. "We march on!" He couldn't wait to return home. Dany would be there, eager to greet him, and Arthur and Rickon would be very excited to hear his Hornwood tale.

As the thoughts of hope and comfort surged in Robb's heart, he rode his horse at the head of his host of soldiers, confident to return home in an hour. He sniffed the air, expecting the familiar scent of cooking food that wafted over from winter town. Instead, Robb smelled smoke.

 _A lot_ of smoke.

"Something's wrong," Robb murmured, pulling his horse into a steady halt. It was normal smelling smoke from winter town, but not to such an extent. His eyes narrowed in suspicion as he slowly dismounted his horse. Ecton Cassel and a few other men followed suit, glancing at each other in the process.

Robb wrapped his fingers around the pommel of his sword as he carefully and silently walked towards winter town. His purple eyes fixed on the trees and walls near winter town, Robb stumbled and caught himself before he could fall. With a soft sigh of relief, he crouched down to remove the fallen tree branch that he had tripped over. As Robb looked down, he jumped back.

It was a body.

"My lord?" In a flash, Ecton was at Robb's side. The Cassel man gasped. "That's Barthogan Brash-Head my lord!" Robb's stomach turned. The sight of Domeric's rotting flayed skin flickered in Robb's mind. He had almost tripped over a body – the corpse of one of his soldiers to be precise. Robb closed his eyes for a moment. Barthogan had been stabbed multiple times in the back and…and his hands were stone cold, still clutching his manhood.

What _remained_ of his manhood.

Someone had been sadistic enough to chop off Barthogan's cock when he was probably pissing in front of a tree.

"My lord." Ecton's urgent tone dragged Robb from his thoughts. "I believe that the Bastard of Bolton is already here."

* * *

Winter town was a place of ruins, an open graveyard for the violently killed. It was a horrible sight.

Sword in hand, Robb roamed the deserted streets with his men. In the warm, blistering summers, the streets would be muddy; it was quite muddy now from a mix of dirt, blood and rain. Everywhere Robb looked, he saw bodies. Upon closer examination, he noticed that many of their blood-splattered faces had froze in an expression of terror and fear. When Robb set foot in the market square, the smell of smoke overwhelmed him. He covered his nose with a gloved hand and looked around. The wooden stalls that had held produce and goods were no more. Some had wooden limbs ripped out; the majority were used as kindling.

"Any survivors?" Robb asked, glancing at one of the captains he'd sent to look at the rows of small and neat houses.

"No milord," the captain replied, pain clearly visible in his brown eyes. "All the inhabitants in this town are dead or have escaped to nearby villages seeking help or sanctuary." He swallowed. "My family…I left them here for their own safety. It was safer than the mountains…" His lips tightened. "With winter coming and all, I thought they would be safer here…" He shuddered. "They may have escaped to a neighbouring village," said Robb sympathetically. "We must always have hope. It is essential to have hope in war and winter." He patted the captain's arm. "Have a moment alone if you wish."

"No!" Pain had made way for anger in the captain's eyes. "I want that bastard's head! I want justice! Not just for my family, but for all the innocent lives here!"

"Ramsay Snow will die," said Robb firmly.

"How? The bastard has your castle!"

Robb waited for the captain to calm down before saying coolly, "Ramsay Snow most likely has all his men holed up in Winterfell. He has no more men. We have enough men to rid the north of the Bolton men once and for all. I swear to you by the old gods Captain, that not one Bolton man will escape justice." His heart was pounding twice as fast with worry underneath his calm exterior. If the Bastard of Bolton had infiltrated Winterfell as the captain had said, where was Dany and his siblings and the other guests at Winterfell? Lady Alys and Lady Lyanna travelled to Winterfell for their safety, not to be slaughtered by a murderous maniac. Robb almost winced. If Alys Karstark and Lyanna Mormont were both raped, tortured and killed, House Karstark would never forgive Robb and even House Mormont – a noble House still utterly loyal to the Starks – would withdraw support. Ramsay would be the murderer yes, but as Robb assured no harm would come to the two ladies, it would also be him Lord Karstark and Lady Mormont will blame.

"Do you have a plan milord?" said the captain doubtfully.

Not a great one. Then again, any plan was better than the Hornwood plan. "We can try and lure the Bolton men out," said Robb uncertainly.

The captain shook his head. "No fool would send all his men out."

"We cannot lay siege to Winterfell – it would take too long." He didn't add that laying siege to his own home was foolish. "Our best chances are either luring the men out, or sneaking in."

"My lord?" Ecton walked up to them. "This will sound quite strange. The main gates of the castle are open."

Robb stared at him. " _What?_ "

"It's a trap," said the captain at once. "Bastards are sly and are born without a shred of honour. We cannot go through the main gates! That bastard Ramsay will have his archers shoot us once we set foot in the courtyard. Milord, we will all be slaughtered if we fall into that trap."

"There are other gates of entry," said Robb thoughtfully. "Ramsay Snow might have already suspected we are here already so we lose the element of surprise." He bit his lip worriedly. What if his plan failed? He would've sent hundreds of his men to their deaths.

"Wouldn't there be Bolton men posted there?" asked another soldier.

"They might not be aware of those entries. Not many people use the Hunter's Gate or the East Gate unless they live at Winterfell. I know not all of us can sneak into Winterfell through those gates, but perhaps a select number can."

"What of the rest, milord?"

Robb thought for a moment. "Wait here," he decided. "A little closer to the gate though. When you see fighting, advance." It wasn't the best plan, but it was better than no plan at all.

Once Ecton and the captain chose the men appropriate for the infiltration plan, Robb joined them, earning a raised eyebrow from one of the more experienced of soldiers. "I'll be coming too," he said boldly. "Winterfell is my home and I will not be waiting around for the Boltons to be eliminated." He waited for complaints to be made, but to his surprise, there weren't any. A few concerned glances, but that was all. Robb looked at Ecton. "I put you in charge of the men here." Instead of an exclamation of annoyance, Ecton Cassel only nodded.

The moment the chosen men were assembled, Robb led half of them out of the deserted winter town and towards Hunter's Gate. The gate was located near the kennels and the kitchens and was very convenient for hunting parties as it opens directly onto open fields and the wolfswood. His heart almost sank as he spotted more dead bodies thrown sloppily into a pile.

"It's not too late to turn back," a soldier whispered tentatively. "Milord, I don't think your lord father will want to see you dead-"

"He won't want to see Winterfell in the hands of a Bolton bastard," Robb cut in sharply. "Come on." He edged closer to Hunter's Gate and caught sight of three to four men with Bolton badges. They were all drinking.

Robb couldn't believe his luck. _Drunk_ soldiers? Hope soared in him. If luck was on his side, he would be able to take Winterfell back from Ramsay Snow before it was night time. Robb glanced calculatingly at his men. _Who are the best here?_ He pointed at a small number of men he knew were excellent warriors. "Knock them out," he said promptly. "We don't want them raising an alarm." One of the chosen soldiers hesitated. "Would it not be better if we kill them, milord? They are guilty of rebelling against you milord and need to face justice." Most of the others there nodded in agreement.

 _I cannot afford to alienate these men_ , Robb thought. They wanted blood; blood they'd get. Before Robb could change his mind, he nodded, not believing what he had agreed to. _What is wrong with me?_ In permitting his men to butcher the men loyal to Ramsay Snow, he was no better than Ramsay himself.

Before Robb could say anything else, the chosen soldiers had already begun to sneak towards the Bolton men positioned near Hunter's Gate, with their swords and their eyes gleaming with a craving for blood. Feebly, Robb watched in horror as his chosen men crept up to the drunk Bolton soldiers and one by one, killed all four of them. The closest Bolton man was stabbed twice in the back and then his throat was slit; the second lost his head; the third had a dagger stuck in the back of his bald head; and the last was stabbed in the belly.

One of the soldiers turned to Robb. "This gate is already open milord."

Hope vanished in a flash. _This is a trap too_. Robb took a deep breath. "Let's go," he said at last. His fingers tightened around his sword's pommel. He prayed that he and his men weren't heading into a trap. Without a dot of hesitation, Robb led his soldiers towards Hunter's Gate. He prayed that Daenerys, Arthur, Rickon and Gwenysse, Lady Lyanna, Lady Alys and the Reeds were safe. _I will see them soon_ , Robb promised himself. _Once Ramsay Snow and his Bolton men are dead_.

* * *

 **I read the reviews and the majority of you said that a part of the last chapter felt clunky and the Reach lords should've been arrested on the spot. I was confused and I read the chapter and was horrified to discover that I had uploaded the old version, not the edited one. No one (except the plotters) are supposed to know the Reachmen are working with the Dornishmen. The previous chapter should be edited now :)**


	108. The King in the Crownlands

"He looks like the last dragon prince…"

"Rhaegar's son…"

"The dragons have returned at last."

Aegon smiled and nodded at smallfolk who had gathered at Duskendale. He'd disembarked from the _Pride of Driftmark_ – a warship Lord Velaryon had gifted to him – with Lords Velaryon and Celtigar and Harry Strickland at his side. Lord Bar Emmon and Lord Sunglass would arrive soon with more men. Those two lords – and Lord Velaryon – seemed utterly loyal already; Lord Celtigar was more tricky. At times the sour-faced lord would offer helpful advice; sometimes he ranted on about the troubles his House faced after the defeat of the Targaryens.

"They're pleased to see you my king," commented Lord Velaryon. "It is a good sign is it not?"

"Very much so my lord." Aegon mounted his horse and his lords followed suit. The smallfolk parted to create a road for him and his party. Aegon gave them all a second smile as a thanks of appreciation. "What of this Lord Rykker?"

"House Rykker fought for your grandfather during the Usurper's war. I do not think Lord Rykker will fight for House Baratheon."

Slightly reassured, Aegon slowly made his way towards the castle under Lord Velaryon's quiet directions. For the first time in his life, Lord Connington was not at his side, hissing advice and complaints into his ear. It felt refreshing to ride on the cobbled streets of the port town without feeling Lord Connington's blue eyes on him the whole time. _I will always think of him as a father_ , Aegon thought as he rode passed a large building that stood like a giant in the middle of a line of small buildings. _I am glad for a little bit of freedom though_.

"That is the Seven Swords." Lord Velaryon nodded at the huge building they'd ridden passed. "The biggest inn in Duskendale. An immensely popular inn as well. Over there is the Dun Fort, the seat of House Rykker."

The Dun Fort was a squat square stone castle with big drum towers. It did not take Aegon and his party very long to ride there and when they arrived, the Lord of Duskendale was already waiting for them in the courtyard with his family and household. The two black warhammers crossed on a white saltire on blue sigil of House Rykker were emblazoned on the standards that flew proudly atop all the towers of the Dun Fort. Aegon was pleased that word of his arrival had spread; it would shorten his journey around the Crownlands considerably. _The lords of the Crownlands can gather and swear allegiance to me here_ , Aegon reflected. _It won't take long for us to march to King's Landing and force Stannis Baratheon to yield. A fool can even tell it is time to surrender._ From what he heard in gossip, Stannis did not get along with his usurper brother – why would he remain loyal and hold the Red Keep for his unappreciative king? Stannis Baratheon wouldn't be allowed to remain Lord of Storm's End, but if he yielded swiftly, he might be permitted to be a man of the Night's Watch.

"Your Grace," said Lord Rykker, bowing deeply as Aegon dismounted from his horse. "What a great honour! Dun Fort had the pleasure of serving many kings of old and will be happy to serve another."

 _My grandfather King Aerys did not enjoy his stay here_. "Your people are pleased to see me," remarked Aegon. "They lined the streets to greet me. It was quite the warm welcome, my lord."

Lord Rykker beamed with delight. "The people of Duskendale have oft prayed for the dragons to return, Your Grace, and our prayers have been answered!" He raised his hands. "The Seven have blessed you Your Grace."

Aegon smiled. "May I present Lords Montford Velaryon and Ardrian Celtigar?" He gestured to the Narrow Sea lords. "And Harry Strickland, the Captain-General of the Golden Company." Margaery had told him the names of all the lords of the Narrow Sea in private shortly after they had sworn their allegiance to him.

"My lords." Lord Rykker nodded at Lords Velaryon and Celtigar. "Captain. I am certain you know who I am, but for formalities sake, I'm Renfred Rykker, Lord of Duskendale." He stepped back and motioned for a pretty woman with curly black hair and dark brown eyes to step forward. "My wife, Lady Ceryse Manning," Lord Rykker introduced, "and our children: Raston, Jarwell, Alyce and Cerissa."

Aegon nodded at each Rykker child when Lord Rykker named them.

"You must be hungry Your Grace," Lord Rykker said to him. "Come, we'll break bread. You wish to talk, yes?"

"Of course." Aegon handed the reins of his horse to Monterys Velaryon who he had taken into his household as a page. Lord Velaryon did not seem as thrilled as Aegon anticipated, but Monterys was elated. Aegon followed Lord Rykker inside the castle and into the Great Hall. His heart warmed with pleasure when he saw a Targaryen banner hanging in the Great Hall beside the Rykker banner. A spark of hope blossomed in Aegon's heart. Did Magister Illyrio speak the truth when he'd said women sewed dragon banners in secret?

After everyone sat down at the high table and the servants began putting food in front of them, Lord Rykker began talking again. "I have already summoned my men," he informed Aegon. "By tomorrow at dawn, all my soldiers will be ready to follow you into battle Your Grace."

"Thank you my lord," said Aegon, sipping the wine Lord Rykker poured him. "I am grateful. Your aid will not be forgotten, Lord Rykker. I will always reward and honour my good allies." Perhaps if Margaery gave him a number of sons, the last would wed Lord Rykker's future granddaughter. "Will you be leading your men?" he inquired. "There will always be a place for you in my war council."

"Oh no, I fought in enough wars Your Grace." Lord Rykker chuckled. "A bit too many. My son Raston will be leading my men."

Aegon nodded thoughtfully. "I plan to march to King's Landing once all of the lords of the Crownlands swear allegiance to me. You do not mind if I hold council here for a few days, my lord?"

The look of delight returned to Lord Rykker's face. "Honoured, my king!"

A speck of suspicion flashed across Aegon's mind. In his meagre experience in dealing with Westerosi lords, convincing them he was truly Rhaegar's son and to help restore him to the throne were always the most difficult of problems Aegon had faced so far. Usually the solution included making a dozen or so promises of more land, more gold, perhaps a future betrothal even. No lord had so far greeted Aegon so warmly before. What if Lord Rykker was only feigning loyalty?

"The road to King's Landing won't have many obstacles Your Grace," Montford Velaryon told Aegon. "Many lords have died recently and their lands inherited by children. The Lady of Hayford is a child of three; still mastering walking I believe. Lords Edgerton and Cressey fought in a duel and both died, leaving their lands to their sons who have only begun ruling by themselves. Both of them will be easily swayed to join your side, Your Grace. Lady Stokeworth will probably declare for the king who agrees to marry her second daughter Lollys to an important lord or promises to grant House Stokeworth the Rosby lands. Currently the Rosby lands are under the nominal rule of the late Lord Rosby's ward. I doubt he will be much trouble, Your Grace." He smiled.

"There are still many obstacles," objected Lord Celtigar grumpily. "There's the Chytterings for one. Last time I went to court, I saw a Chyttering serve as page to the king! Those Chytterings and Baratheons were always close." He scowled and began to rant on about how one of his great, great, great aunts was initially to be wed to the Baratheon Lord of Storm's End when she was repudiated in favour for a Chyttering girl.

"Thank you my lord," said Aegon politely. "I'll remember House Chyttering as one loyal to the Usurper."

"There are other Houses too," Lord Celtigar warned.

"There are plenty of Houses loyal to His Grace," said Lord Rykker at once. "I've heard the Mootons and Darrys are waving the dragon banners once more."

Lord Velaryon chortled. "That'll be trouble for Lord Tully. It seems His Grace's letters from Dragonstone have already reached the Riverlands."

Aegon smiled. Excellent. Before he left Dragonstone, he'd written letters that'd stated his heritage and his desire to reclaim the Iron Throne as was his right. The noble Houses that flock to him would be richly rewarded; those who fight for the Usurper would not fare so well. If the Starks, Tullys and Arryns bend the knee to him, they would be forgiven for all past actions. If those particular Houses plan to fight for the Usurper once more…

There would be no mercy for them.

* * *

The banners of different noble Houses throughout the Seven Kingdoms waved wildly in the courtyard of the Dun Fort. When Aegon looked down from the stone balcony, he could not resist a grin. Instead of Aegon himself searching for allies, a dozen or less lords were here, clamouring to his side.

 _Lord Connington counselled for me to wait_ , contemplated Aegon, walking down the stairs to the Great Hall. It was his seventh morning breaking his fast with the Rykkers at Dun Fort. Lords Sunglass and Bar Emmon had joined them with their joint ships joining Lords Velaryon's and Celtigar's fleet tied to many docks in the harbour in Duskendale. Every day a lord or two arrived at the Dun Fort to swear allegiance to Aegon and were welcomed to share in Lord Rykker's hospitality. _If I had waited, all these lords would be feasting with the Usurper's son, not promising me their armies and declaring their delight in my House's long last return._ He then thought about his lady wife. They had exchanged few letters since Aegon left her at Dragonstone, in fear their ravens would be shot down and their letters read by their enemies. Aegon hoped he would receive a letter soon stating that he would be a father. He was the last male Targaryen – he needed sons.

Not the last Targaryen though. There was his aunt Princess Daenerys who still dwelled in the North. _Once I sit on the Iron Throne, I will tell the Seven Kingdoms that the bastard they know as Daenerys Sand is in truth Daenerys Targaryen, only surviving daughter of King Aerys II._ Now that would shock the northerners.

Before Aegon could sit down and eat, he heard excited whispers between Lord Velaryon and Lord Rykker. Frowning slightly, Aegon joined them. "Is there news, my lords? Perhaps Stannis Baratheon surrendered?"

Lord Velaryon snorted. "Forgive me Your Grace, but do you know Lord Stannis Baratheon? He'd rather die than surrender."

Aegon thought it would actually be better that way. The less Baratheons alive, the better it was for him to rule in peace – not that he would ever sleep well with the notion of even one Baratheon-blooded human being still alive and skulking in the Seven Kingdoms. _I will not murder them. No, I am not a cruel man_.

"A rider earlier this morning from the Riverlands," said Lord Rykker excitedly, rubbing his hands together. "Apparently-" He broke off as the heavy doors of the Great Hall swung open and a cluster of men in Tyrell colours marched in. Aegon's mouth dropped open.

The Tyrell men were guarding a woman.

A _woman_.

Highborn, certainly, by the look of her richly embroidered gown and rather icy expression, but why did she require the protection of so many men?

"You must be my grandson-in-law," declared a different woman's voice. Aegon watched as a tiny ancient woman tottered out to the front, her lacquer black cane tapping the stone floor. "Aegon Targaryen is it?"

"Yes," said Aegon cautiously. The old lady tsked. "You do not sound so certain, young man," She shuffled closer to Aegon and squinted at him up and down. "You seem healthy enough," she announced loudly. Aegon glanced at the other lords in the Great Hall. Some looked nervous; others seemed to be refraining laughter. "It is always a grandmother's desire to have healthy grandsons-in-law." The old lady eyed him for a moment. "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? Will you not be greeting your grandmother-in-law?"

Oh.

 _Oh…_

"It's good to finally meet you, my lady," Aegon said, recovering rapidly. "I have heard a great deal of-"

"Kind words?" The Queen of Thorns cut in with a sharp laugh. "I thank you for your politeness Your Grace. We must have a little chat soon." She smiled – or was it a smirk? "Now," she said briskly. "If you still have a speck of doubt on believing or trusting House Tyrell, allow me to put you at ease." She waved a spotted hand at the Tyrell men. They instantly stepped aside and the highborn lady reluctantly stepped forward, stony-faced. "This is Lady Catelyn Tully," said Lady Olenna with a rather victorious grin. "Wife – now widow – of Robert Baratheon and mother to the new Baratheon usurper."

Aegon felt a smile spread on his face. What a prize! Though Lady Catelyn Tully wasn't the king or even a prince, she was the queen mother and with her here as an honoured guest, the Tully, Baratheon and perhaps the Arryn forces would not be so quick to ride down and attack. Yes, the Tyrells had done very well indeed.

"My lady," said Aegon, giving the expressionless Lady Catelyn Tully a suitable nod. Though she was the Usurper's widow, she was still a highborn woman. "It is a delight to meet you. Welcome to the Dun Fort, Lord Rykker's keep."

"You will be safe here," said Lord Rykker helpfully. "Upon my word Your Gr – I mean my lady, that no harm will come to you here in my home and every comfort will be given to you."

"Everything except my freedom," the Tully lady said icily.

"That cannot be helped," said Aegon in what he hoped was an apologetic tone. "This is a time of war my lady, and your presence here may…postpone any hopes of further bloodshed."

"You are a stranger to me." Lady Catelyn's blue eyes glared at Aegon. "For all I know, you could be the son of a tanner who happens to have Valyrian features. It might be possible that you are a well-educated man from Dragonstone who has a desire to be king. You could've concocted a story that convinced the Dornish and the Reachmen, but I know Rhaegar's son died in the Sack of King's Landing."

"You were only told that," said Aegon calmly, "probably by Varys, your father, other lords or even by Robert Baratheon. You weren't at King's Landing then. It'd be impossible for you to know Prince Rhaegar's son died. He wasn't. Certain men still loyal to my House smuggled me out and replaced me with a peasant's son. It was what happened and here I am, reclaiming my birthright."

Lady Catelyn's eyes grew frostier. "My son is the king now."

"Another usurper." Aegon returned to his seat. "I am a merciful man though. It is not in my interest to see more blood spilled than necessary. I will give you pen and parchment. Write to your son. Tell him to give up his claim and I will permit him to take the black. His younger brother can too. You can visit them as well my lady. Would that not be more pleasant than you mourning their deaths?" He gave Lady Catelyn a moment to think before turning to Lord Rykker. "My lord, will you have a servant prepare a chamber for Lady Catelyn? One befitting her status as a lady of a Great House of course."

Lord Rykker bowed. "It will be done at once Your Grace."

Aegon waved his hand and the group of Tyrell men escorted Lady Catelyn out. He looked at Lady Olenna. "My lady, would you care to break your fast with me? I will be honoured-"

"No need to say anymore," interrupted Lady Olenna, tottering up the few steps to the dais. "I am feeling rather peckish this morning." She gestured for one of the servants to come forward. "Soft bread and cheese!" she barked.

"You have done so much for the Targaryen cause," said Aegon quietly. "I thank you for it, my lady. If you, Prince Doran and Varys had not done what you did, I'd still be stuck in Pentos dreaming about Westeros."

"The dragons had always been better friends to House Tyrell than the stags of Storm's End will ever be."

"Your granddaughter was married to Renly Baratheon and Willas married the Usurper's eldest daughter. That is quite a sign of friendship." He broke his bread and dipped one end into a bowl of creamy soup. Lady Olenna snorted. "Margaery was to wed Renly since Robert Baratheon took the crown. It was expected. As for Willas and Lyanna Baratheon…" She paused thoughtfully. "That was not a sign of friendship. It was caused by Robert Baratheon's fury at losing a Stark good-son. A match that delighted my oaf son, but complicated matters for your cause. I doubt Willas and Lyanna's marriage can be annulled, but if you wish, I'll arrange for my grandson's lady wife to remain in Highgarden until the end of her days. They will still have children though," she warned. " _Tyrell_ children."

"There is no rush dealing with Lyanna Baratheon. Her brothers are concerning me presently. A pity the Usurper was poisoned. I would have liked to defeat him, perhaps at the Trident."

"Fool." Aegon arched an eyebrow. "The stag king was never to die in war," the Queen of Thorns said, sipping her wine. "It had been decided years ago that he'd meet his death at a feast. Poison is much more subtle."

"Who poisoned him?" asked Aegon bluntly. "It couldn't be my uncle."

Lady Olenna's eyes glinted. " _I_ poisoned Robert Baratheon."

Aegon stared at her. "No. Lord Connington mentioned this Lenn the Red. What is his real name? It cannot possibly be you my lady."

"A clever little name don't you think?" Lady Olenna sipped her wine again. "It's my invention of course, not the Spider's. I am old and most lords and ladies that I knew since my childhood are dead. The only lord still alive is Walder Frey and he will probably outlive us all. Most people forget that I married into House Tyrell – I was born a Redwyne of the Arbor. You've yet to meet my Redwyne relations. All of them have red hair and my hair used to be that red. Lenn the Red. Me."

"Did anyone know you were Lenn the Red?"

"Only the Spider."

Varys the Spider knew everything. "You must've poisoned Renly too."

"Of course. Kill two stags with one poison. Very convenient. Have you met the Spider yet, Your Grace?"

Aegon shook his head. "I hope he comes soon. I do not wish to burden the Dun Fort with more men and the sooner I take the Red Keep, the better. I was told the Red Keep had many secret passages built in. It would be useful for us. If Varys is willing to share his knowledge on secret passages with us, we can send men to be a decoy for Stannis's forces and then sneak into the castle via secret passages and secure our victory from there. There wouldn't be many deaths and the armies of the Reach, Dorne and the sellsword companies will still be quite intact to face the armies the Usurper's allies would send."

"A sound plan. What if the Spider does not appear?"

"We have enough forces to surround the city. More lords will join and I believe with them, troops. We could prepare for a siege, or even launch small battles at a number of gates to tire out Stannis's men."

Before the Queen of Thorns could remark, the doors banged open and a guard hurried in with another man Aegon couldn't recognise. "Please," said Aegon, with an impatient sigh. "Can it not wait a few more minutes?"

"There's no need Your Grace." Lady Olenna had risen and seemed to be staring at the stranger with faint dislike. "This is Petyr Baelish, the former Master of Coin in the Usurper's small council."

"Lady Tyrell." Petyr Baelish's grey-green eyes twinkled. "A pleasure to see you again." He swept Aegon a low bow. "Your Grace."

"I have never heard of House Baelish before," said Aegon flatly.

Baelish laughed, amusement not reaching his eyes. "A small House in the Vale, Your Grace. I can be of service to you, Your Grace. I know many ways of locating a great deal of men to serve you. I am even willing to lend you my gold. Though I'm a mere former Master of Coin, I do own quite a deal of establishments and I have many connections still. I can be a great help to your cause, Your Grace."

"Why did you decide to support me? Why not the Usurper's son?"

"The Baratheons have looked down at me for years Your Grace. I served them well and what was my reward? A dismissal!"

Aegon looked at Petyr Baelish thoughtfully and inwardly shrugged. There was no harm in accepting a minor nobleman's offer of gold and troops. "What is it you wish?" Aegon finally asked. "Lands, titles?"

Baelish's eyes gleamed like jewels. "I would be grateful for lands and titles, but what I truly desire Your Grace, is to take a wife. For my gold and aid Your Grace, I wish to have Lady Catelyn Tully as my wife."

* * *

 **I always like writing the Aegon chapters :) So, what do you think if the Season 7 finale?**


	109. Orys II

_"To the Usurper Orys of House Baratheon, your lady mother Lady Catelyn of the House Tully is currently a guest in my care. She will come to no harm and upon my word of honour, will be returned to the Riverlands safely, once you, your sisters and brother and close kin bearing the name Baratheon renounce what claims you have to the Iron Throne and bend the knee and swear fealty to me, your true king. Aegon Targaryen the Sixth of My Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."_

Silence struck the party of lords and knights. The Rykker messenger shifted on the spot nervously, keeping his eyes on the ground, away from Orys's icy glare. It took all of Orys's strength to restrain himself from smashing the Rykker boy into the pile of rocks that sat conveniently nearby. Orys's fingers curled into a fist. His mother – his kind, gracious mother – captured!

"This must be a jape," said Lord Royce uncertainly. "The queen mother left for Riverrun, escorted by Lord Blackwood. Lord Blackwood's no traitor. He wouldn't side with this…this Aegon Targaryen!"

"He might've if this mummer's dragon promised him Lord Bracken's keep and lands," said Ser Brynden Blackfish darkly. "The Blackwoods and Brackens are kin from all those marriages they made, yet they still hate each other. Every time war is declared, I wager the Blackwoods will side with the Brackens' enemy."

"Lord Blackwood is more honourable," argued Orys hesitantly. "Besides one of his squires is my cousin Hoster. Lord Blackwood knows that my lord uncle Tully will never support an usurper."

"When it comes to land in the Blackwood-Bracken feud Your Grace, not one of the Brackens or Blackwoods are honourable." The Blackfish scowled. "However, I doubt Lord Blackwood betrayed the queen mother."

"Does my uncle Lord Tully know about this?" Orys demanded, turning to glare at the Rykker messenger. The Rykker boy nodded, terrified. "A raven was sent-t-t to him my lord," he stammered. "Lord Tully sh-should have received the note."

"Lord Tully will not sit, knowing his sister, my mother, is in danger," said Orys, looking back at his party of lords and knights. "He will be calling his banners." His stormy blue eyes fell upon Lord Jason Mallister. "My lord of Seagard, you are one of the few river lords present. Can I count on my lord uncle's support?" He knew Uncle Edmure would support him, but it had to be said – common courtesy after all. Orys didn't have to wait long for an answer.

The tall and lean Lord of Seagard nodded. "Lord Tully will always support you Your Grace. We river lords will gladly follow him into war."

"As will the lords of the Reach," Lord Tyrell said, puffing his chest out proudly. "I'll not hide behind the walls of Highgarden with my good-daughter a prisoner!" Orys nodded. He still was not particularly fond of Lord Tyrell's boisterous, proud ways, but the Reach could amass the largest armies in a short period of time. The Northern armies would be vast too, but not at the present with the majority in an ongoing war against the wildlings.

"If we declare war, my mother will be killed," said Orys quietly. "She is strong, but the Targaryens can be cruel. What if she is being tortured?" Images of Mother roasting to death appeared in his mind.

"The queen mother is strong," said Ser Brynden assertively.

"Harrenhal is close," said Lord Mallister, nodding in the direction of Harrenhal Castle. "Does Your Grace wish to rest there?"

 _No!_ Part of Orys wanted to shout. He wanted to race to King's Landing, kill the so-called Aegon Targaryen and rescue Mother. Mother had always been there for him when he needed and was a good listener. Rage brewed in Orys. He breathed in deeply, suppressing his anger. "We will rest at Harrenhal," he said, grinding his teeth like his uncle Stannis. "We will rest there for a day or two and plan for war. This Aegon has my mother and is after my crown – I will not let him take it like a common thief!" As the lords and knights began nodding in approval, Orys prayed. He prayed Mother would stay strong. He prayed the war would not last long and he prayed that his late kinswoman Lady Shella Whent had plenty of well-trained ravens at his disposal.

Orys had many letters to write and send.

* * *

Harrenhal was cold, virtually abandoned by humans and the home of ghosts. It was an unsettling feeling. Orys wished he could convene a war council in a castle that held a more pleasant ambiance, but Harrenhal was the closest and presently without a ruling lord or lady. _I could claim it_ , thought Orys as he rode through the main gate and into the courtyard, surrounded on either side by Sers Brynden and Barristan. Behind him rode the other three knights of the Kingsguard (except Ser Garth Greysteel who Orys had commanded to remain at the Vale to guard Minisa and Ormund) and an assortment of lords and knights.

"Where are the servants?" demanded Lord Tyrell arrogantly, who had spurred his white destrier uncomfortably close to Orys. He frowned when he saw a small man in grey robes hurry towards them. "This is quite outrageous!" he declared at once. "His Grace deserves a better welcome than this! If we were at Highgarden, I would not have His-"

Orys raised his hand to silence him. "Thank you Lord Tyrell," he said with little traces of weariness at the Lord of Highgarden's pompous outbursts. He looked at the grey robed man who was no doubt the maester at Harrenhal. "Please forgive Lord Tyrell's words," Orys said, dismounting his steed. "We did not have time to send you a raven. I suspect you are in charge of Harrenhal's affairs?"

"Not all the affairs Your Grace," said the maester in a nasally voice with a deep bow. "I take care of most matters yes, but Ser Willis Wode is in charge of defence, and protecting the lands and castle of the late Lady Whent."

"I see." Orys's blue eyes scanned the deserted courtyard. "Where is the rest of my _kinswoman_ the late Lady Whent's household, Maester?"

"There are not many left in Lady Whent's household Your Grace. Only Harra, a serving woman – quite old now – and the old blacksmith Ben Blackthumb. Some of the others had returned home or went to join other noble households. A few of the maidservants still work here but are more often um, in Harrentown."

Orys took a deep breath. _If Father is in my position, he'd only care if there're no servants to prepare him a feast_. "When those maidservants return, they will all be dismissed," he said firmly. The maester's eyes widened in amazement. "I have no need for unaccommodating servants," said Orys briskly.

"They are sworn to House Whent Your Grace!" the maester protested.

"House Whent is no more," said Orys, walking in the direction of the Great Hall with Ser Barristan and Ser Brynden behind him. Orys hadn't travelled around the Seven Kingdoms much (he still hadn't visited Dorne, the Wall, the Westerlands or the Iron Islands or much of the North and the Reach) but he _had_ stayed a couple of times at Harrenhal before when he visited Lady Whent with Mother, his sisters and Ormund. When Orys had visited Harrenhal for the first time, he was amazed by the sight; he still was to this day. Harrenhal had five towers of dizzying size. It had equally monstrous curtain walls as sheer and high as mountain cliffs. It was as if Harren the Black planned to build the castle for giants, not humans. Looking up at the towers, Orys noted that none of the towers were proper, being lumped, bent and cracked from the melting of the stone centuries ago.

The huge oak-and-iron doors creaked as they were pushed open. "The Hall of the Hundred Hearths," Orys murmured, referring to the Great Hall's name. It had only thirty four or thirty five hearths, but was said to be able to entertain a large army. Orys's boots tapped on the smooth slate floor as he walked to the centre of the Great Hall. There were steps leading to two galleries above and a small plain door near the back of the Great Hall that probably led to the kitchens.

"You can always move the capital here Your Grace," jested Jared Buckwell who had wandered up to Orys. "Enormous great hall here, fit for a king. The Red Keep is tiny compared to this."

"Some say Harrenhal's as monstrously large as Harren the Black's pride," Orys noted casually, "or his ambition." Jared Buckwell fell silent. "Apparently many of the children of the Riverlands were told to beware the fate of Harren the Black. A good bedtime story don't you agree? Keep your pride small and you'll live. Allow your pride to grow…" Orys paused. "You'll end up burnt to death."

"What do we do about Radford Rykker? He's a Rykker and probably related to that messenger who delivered you the news about your lady mother."

Orys glanced at Radford Rykker, one of his companions since childhood. "He's a friend, Jared. Our friend. I cannot take him hostage against his uncle."

"He could be a spy," Jared pointed out.

"I have considered that," Orys admitted. "I will have Radford's letters read – to be safe of course, and to reassure my lords."

"The Buckwells are faithful to you Your Grace." Confidence returned to Jared's voice. "My father will not lead his men to join the false dragon. If he does, on my word of honour, I will lead them back to you."

Orys smiled at his friend. "Thank you Jared." He turned to the lords who stood around, murmuring to each other. Their whispers ceased once they spotted Orys looking at them. "My lords," announced Orys. "We will eat, drink and rest. In one hour, we will convene for the war council meeting in the lord's solar. It is located in the Kingspyre Tower," he added for the lords and knights' benefit. "We'll meet there in an hour my lords and knights."

"Will you rest awhile, Your Grace?" inquired Jared.

Orys shook his head. "I have letters to write and send." He did not add that he also needed to put the late Lady Whent's affairs in order. Leaving Jared to eat and drink with the other lords and knights, Orys headed to the Kingspyre Tower, the largest and tallest of the five towers of Harrenhal. The tower was lopsided under the heavy weight of slagged stone which was the result of dragonfire. Connecting Kingspyre Tower to the Widow's Tower was an arching stone bridge. When Orys entered Kingspyre Tower, he was met by a stiff-necked and stolid man.

"Your Grace," the man grunted with a bow. "Ser Willis Wode, at your service. I am Castellan of Harrenhal – have been since Lady Whent's death."

"You were appointed castellan, Ser Willis?" questioned Orys.

Ser Willis scratched his head. "Not exactly Your Grace. By the time Lady Shella Whent died, the last castellan was dead and Lady Whent did not name a new one. As Harrenhal had no lord and most of the household members here are old, I had put myself in charge of the Harrenhal defences."

Orys nodded. "You'll remain castellan for the time being then, Ser Willis." He'd no desire to antagonise the Harrenhal household. "I wish to settle in the solar for a day or two. Will that be possible?"

"Of course Your Grace." Orys followed Ser Willis up the stairs and into the late Lady Whent's solar, a drafty room as large as a hall in a smaller castle. "The lord's bedchambers are upstairs Your Grace," said Ser Willis helpfully. "It has been kept clean since Lady Whent's death."

"Thank you Ser Willis." Orys's footsteps echoed in the solar as he walked up to the small round table carved from weirwood. "Ser Willis, does Harrenhal have a larger table similar to this one? I wish for all the lords in my entourage to be able to have a seat in here."

"Aye, I believe there's a large table somewhere in this tower Your Grace. I will have a look around for you."

"Thank you Ser Willis," Orys said again. "The war council meeting will begin in an hour. I'd be grateful if you can find a suitable table before it starts." He settled down on the cushioned chair and examined the papers that had been stacked in a neat pile on the late Lady Whent's table. Half of them were still closed and sealed. Orys grabbed a quill and piece of parchment, eyeing the sealed letters with slight interest. Shaking his curiosity away, Orys dipped his quill into the tiny pot of ink that was placed in front of the stack of parchments and began to write.

 _The seeds of war have been sown_ , Orys scrawled on the parchment cautiously. _The man who calls himself Aegon Targaryen is an impostor and a pretender to the Iron Throne. My father King Robert of House Baratheon the First of His Name had been poisoned as was my uncle Renly Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone. The Dornish have risen to support the false Aegon as have many other noble Houses. I, King Orys of House Baratheon the First of My Name, assure you that all those who join with the false Aegon will be forgiven and welcomed back into the fold. I desire peace and unity in the realm in preparations for the oncoming winter._

Satisfied, Orys put it to the side. Perhaps his lords would have more advice in what to write. Some of them were seasoned war generals after all. It was hard to believe that the start of his reign would begin with a war. _I hope the war will not last years_ , Orys reflected. The sooner it was over, the better. He wasn't afraid of a lot of blood being spilled, but he deplored the idea of war, especially with winter a few short months away. Lyarra had said that winter was already in the North – the most northern part that was.

 _Lyarra_.

Guilt prodded Orys in the heart. He hadn't thought about his pregnant wife all day – or all of yesterday for that matter. _Does the false dragon have her prisoner?_ Orys wondered worriedly. _What will he do to her?_ A horrible thought occurred. It was possible that the false Aegon would keep Lyarra alive until she gives birth to her babe. _What then?_ Would Aegon have the babe killed?

"He does not have Lyarra," Orys said out loud. If the false dragon did, he would have gloated about it in his letter. For now, Lyarra was safe.

 _For now…_

* * *

"My lords and knights, we are here to discuss the state of the Seven Kingdoms, more specifically, the looming war," declared Orys from the head of the table. Not all of the lords and knights were able to find a seat, yet Lords Mallister and Royce and Lord Tyrell managed to claim the seats closest to him.

"There is a pretender here on Westerosi lands," boomed Lord Royce. "He calls himself Aegon Targaryen. He is naught but a false dragon!" The other lords began to nod in agreement. "The dragons died when the late King Robert defeated them in war," Lord Royce went on. "The true king is King Orys Baratheon, the late King Robert's eldest son. I swore fealty to King Orys and I will order my sons to gather House Royce's troops upon His Grace's command."

"As will I!" announced another Vale lord.

"My lady mother is the false dragon's prisoner," stated Orys, "and my lady wife is trapped in a possible siege in the Red Keep. As you well know, _my queen_ is with child." He waited as the lords murmured to each other. "She is carrying my heir – I'll not have my future child born dead. The false Aegon claims all will be well if I give up my claim. Every rebel lord will be forgiven and there will be peace. There will _never_ be peace with a mad dragon on the Iron Throne."

"The Rykkers have joined the false dragon," spoke Jared Buckwell, "as have an uncertain number of lords of the Crownlands. My guess is they joined him in fear he will burn their lands. Justifiable."

"That is cowardice!" said Lord Tyrell indignantly. "That is not justifiable!"

"Let us assume all the lords of the Crownlands have joined Aegon Targaryen," said Orys calmly, "with the exception of the Buckwells and Chytterings." He gave a nod of approval as the maester unrolled a map and placed it on the table. "That means the Crownlands is unfortunately our enemy alongside Dorne." He placed a faded red wooden marker fashioned in the shape of a dragon head on the part of the map labelled 'the Crownlands'. He put one of a sun and spear on Dorne.

"You still have the Reach as a strong ally, Your Grace," Lord Tyrell assured him confidently. "The Dornish will be eradicated in days!"

"It is not a Dornish rebellion Lord Tyrell," said Lord Royce impatiently. "It is a war." He turned his attention to the map. "Your Grace, I'm almost certain that the false Aegon has control of Dragonstone and the lords of the Narrow Sea are most likely on his side. The Narrow Sea lords have more Valyrian blood and Targaryen connections than most of us here. Lord Velaryon has Targaryen blood and by the Seven, he's one of the most powerful Narrow Sea lords. If he agreed to support a pretender, it is likely the other lords of the Narrow Sea and Crackclaw Point have followed suit. If Lady Lysa Arryn agrees, the Vale forces can focus on recapturing Dragonstone for you Your Grace."

"My good-brother and cousin Lord Redwyne can do that," objected Lord Tyrell loudly. "He has one of the biggest fleets!"

"It will take Lord Redwyne too long to sail to Dragonstone," said Orys, giving a nod at Lord Royce. "The Vale forces can deal with Dragonstone. They will receive a hundred ships from the royal fleet." He turned to Lord Tyrell. "Once you have a host of men assembled, I want you to harry the Dornish forces." Thankfully, Lord Tyrell did not contradict him. _Even Lord Tyrell knows that it's madness to take an army onto Dornish land to fight the Dornish._

"What about the false Aegon?" asked another lord.

"The river lords will fight, Your Grace," spoke Lord Mallister. "I highly suspect that Lord Tully will insist on the river lords battling the false dragon's men. Lord Edmure might even want to kill the false Aegon himself for holding his sister, the queen mother, prisoner. If my sister was imprisoned by the false dragon, I would crave revenge as well Your Grace."

"I think every honourable man in this room would," commented Orys. His eyes swivelled back to the map as he toyed with a white fish-headed marker. It would take an ample sum of time for armies to march – a vast amount he didn't have. It was frustrating. Something nagged in Orys's mind. What was it that Grandfather Hoster always told him whenever he entertained him with wartime stories? "Not all the river lords are loyal to me," Grandfather Hoster had growled darkly. "They are a quarrelsome lot the river lords. When I fought on the side of your father, for the majority of the war I was here in the Riverlands, fighting against some of my damned bannermen. The Darrys, the Goodbrooks, Mootons and Rygers…they all fought for the dragons."

Orys looked at Lord Royce. "Have my aunt Lady Arryn send a squad of men to the Riverlands immediately."

"What is it Your Grace?" said Lord Royce, concerned.

"Darrys, Goodbrooks, Mootons and Rygers." Orys heard Lord Mallister utter a quiet curse. "They are not the most powerful of river lords, but together they can cause enough trouble for the rivermen to be delayed to the Crownlands." He then glanced at the older lords. "My lords, what do you suggest we do? My good-father Lord Stark is heading north to gather men. It'll take him time. If we wait for him, Lord Tully and the valemen, we would have lost the Seven Kingdoms to the false Aegon before a single battle."

"We could journey to the Crownlands and negotiate?" suggested a Frey knight Orys didn't recognise.

The lords broke into a loud argument.

"That is an act of cowardice!"

"Count on a Frey to shirk from battle!"

"The dragons are mad – there is no point negotiating with them!"

"Yes there is," said Lord Royce loudly. The other lords fell silent. "For time," he said solemnly as everyone listened. "We know negotiating with the false Aegon is pointless, but no blood can be spilt during negotiations and we can use that time to levy our troops and plan for battle. Who knows? Perhaps when the lords of the Crownlands see our united troops, they will return to the fold, deserting the false dragon." He looked at Orys. "Do you approve, Your Grace?"

It was a common strategy and this Aegon – if not, his lords – would notice it at once. However, it was better than no plan at all. "Lord Tyrell will go to the Reach and gather his men," said Orys slowly, "and all the other lords present will return home and call their troops with the exception of Lords Mallister and Royce. You'll have your sons raise the troops as I wish for both of you to accompany me to the Crownlands to represent Vale and Riverlands support." He stood up. "We all have letters to write and send and battles to plan. We will convene here again at dawn tomorrow. May the Seven be with us all."

* * *

 **Mini rant after watching the Season 7 finale: on what grounds did Rhaegar annul his marriage to marry Lyanna Stark? Though I'm not a fan of R+L=J, it does make sense to some slight degree. I can see Jon as a Targaryen bastard or Rhaegar taking Lyanna as his second wife, but him annulling his marriage to Elia?**

 **Sorry, I had no one to rant to about it :P**


	110. Robb VI

Winterfell was like winter town – the home of ghosts. Unlike winter town, the ghosts were still lurking in the castle. As Robb crept through Hunter's Gate at the head of his small force of men, he hesitated. Where to go? Maester Luwin's turret was close, as were the kennels. Where first? Where would the Bolton men lurk in the castle? What were the chances they would be far from Hunter's Gate?

Robb stopped and strained his ears in an attempt to hear the echoed laughs of Bolton men he heard a mere few seconds ago. _We are the ghosts now_ , he thought, glancing around cautiously.

"Milord?" said one of the soldiers uncertainly. "Aren't we meeting up with our other men from the North Gate?"

"No point with the Bolton men hiding around," murmured Robb. Splitting up a small host was a bad idea, but what other choice did he have? "Half of you will go and investigate the Bell Tower area. The rest of you, with me. We will investigate the godswood and armoury."

"The godswood?" said another soldier, looking faintly disappointed. "Milord, I don't think the Bolton men care to ransack the godswood."

"What of the dungeons?" inquired a third soldier. "The Bastard of Bolton has a delight in flaying – the dungeon would have plenty of prisoners."

Robb shook his head. "Most dungeons yes, but not here at Winterfell." Usually a prisoner would be in the dungeons for one or two days, three days at the most, before being executed or sent to the Wall. An icy chill cut through him like a knife. What if Ramsay Snow had rounded everyone in the castle into the dungeons and was flaying them to his heart's content?

"The dungeons will be checked," Robb decided. Better to be safe than sorry. "It will be investigated once we…" He hesitated. "We…kill some Bolton men." To his relief and unease, his men nodded in agreement, some more excited than others. _I am a monster_ , thought Robb as he and a portion of men set off towards the door of the godswood. _I condemned all of Ramsay Snow's men to death. What if not all of them are guilty? If I voice my concerns, the men will dismiss them._ The majority of the soldiers believed that all of Ramsay Snow's followers and soldiers were as bloodthirsty as their master. Perhaps it was true. Father picked soldiers that had excellent skills with no trace of a criminal record. Most of the new soldiers these days were trained by Ser Rodrik or another seasoned soldier though. Mayhap the other northern lords chose their men based on criteria other than honour and an exceptional fighting ability.

"Do you hear something?"

Robb froze, his outstretched hand about to push the godswood door open. The hair at the back of his neck prickled as he slowly turned around. He heard two of his men curse softly.

"Shit." The word slipped from Robb's lips as he found himself staring at a large, vicious-looking grey dog with a bloodthirsty glimmer in its eyes. That dog looked familiar. _Too_ familiar.

"That's one of the Bastard's," said a soldier in a hushed tone. His hand shook a little. "Ripped a great chunk of flesh from my brother's leg in the Hornwood."

"An excellent memory." Reminding Robb of a characteristic villain from one of Old Nan's stories, an ugly young man with long, dark hair, sloped shoulders and a wet-lipped smile, stepped forward from the shadows with at least five hounds at his side, all growling and snarling. Robb kept a steady stare on the man. His eyes were small, close set and oddly pale, like two chips of dirty ice – distinctively like the late Roose Bolton's.

"Ramsay Snow," said Robb, finding his voice.

Anger flashed in the man's pale eyes. "Ramsay _Bolton_ , actually." He smirked. "I am the Lord of the Dreadfort and Lord of Winterfell – you are an invader, Stark." He flipped a dagger and caught it. "You are a fool. You honestly think I won't have guards situated everywhere?"

"My father's Lord of Winterfell," said Robb, gripping his sword. "You're naught but a bastard. It'll be you who will dead today for all the crimes you committed." One of the dogs growled threateningly. Robb's eyes remained fixed on the bloody Bastard of Bolton who had lost his smirk.

"What say you to single combat?" challenged Ramsay Snow. "Just you and me, Stark. Right here, right now." He smiled wickedly. "The victor wins Winterfell."

"We can beat them milord," a soldier whispered to Robb. "Right now even. He is on his own here."

No he wasn't. Robb glanced at the dogs that lurked around their master. They all looked hungry – for flesh or for blood? Ramsay Snow didn't even need to say a word and the dogs would attack. Those hounds wouldn't be easy to kill. _They will probably be more difficult to kill,_ Robb thought.

"Well?" said the Bastard of Bolton, growing impatient.

"What are the terms?" asked Robb.

Ramsay Snow smirked again. "if I win, Winterfell will be mine and I will flay all of your men alive. Their flesh will be fed to my bitches. If you win, I'll be dead and my men will be your prisoners. Execute them if you want, or send them all to the Wall. Everyone knows how you Starks love sending men to the Wall."

"No!" said one of the soldiers hotly. He looked at Robb. "Milord, any of us-" he gestured to himself and the other soldiers "-are willing to fight! Lord Stark won't be pleased if he returns to hear of your death!"

Robb frowned. Did his men have so little confidence in his fighting skills?

"You're nothing but a coward!" sad Ramsay Snow, seemingly delighted. "Will it be death for you too, Stark?"

"No!" Robb snapped. He stepped forward. "I accept your challenge." He almost choked straight after. _What did I just do?_ Robb thought with dread. _Did I sentence all my men to a horrible and agonising death?_ He'd killed some men in battle and was still alive – did that qualify him to represent Winterfell in single combat? The little voice at the back of his mind screamed no.

"Excellent!" Ramsay Snow swapped his dagger for a sword. "I'm quite eager to flay you," he added ominously. "I'll be the first Bolton in centuries to wear a cloak fashioned from Stark skin."

One of the soldiers grabbed Robb's arm. "Milord, allow one of us to fight-"

" _NO!_ " snarled Ramsay. "It will be Stark or I will order my dogs to attack!"

Robb swallowed. "So be it," he said at last. He turned to his men. "I want one of you go to the kennels. If I die today, I want the direwolves set free. I will not have one direwolf here be skinned and its pelt used as a cloak or rug."

Throwing him a look of confusion, one of the soldiers obeyed and hurried off.

Robb steadied his grip as Ramsay began to circle him like a wild predator. "I'll kill you slowly," the bastard promised as Robb started to circle him back. "When I win, you will watch me flay your men alive as you lie there dying, your intestines and blood spilling from your gut. I have your wife too," he added with a maniacal grin. "Pretty little bitch, isn't she? After I flay your men, you'll watch me fuck her." He snickered. "I wager she had never been fucked by a real man before. Once I'm done with her, I will put her in the stocks where any man can fuck her from dawn to night. She will be the whore of Winterfell. She's a whore already, isn't she? Or a witch? No lord would marry a whore lest he's a fool." He laughed as Robb slashed at him with his sword – and missed.

Robb forced himself to calm down as Ramsay continued to taunt him. "I'd once wanted to fuck your sister," the Bolton bastard sneered, his sword singing as it'd clashed with Robb's. "When she was at the Dreadfort, I wanted to fuck her till she was screaming for mercy." He cursed as Robb managed to wound him in the arm. Unfortunately, it wasn't Ramsay Snow's sword arm. "I even thought she'd be my wife," Ramsay went on. "Your father wouldn't care which Bolton she married for an alliance." He cursed again as Robb delivered a particularly savage blow. "She's lucky she was sold to a prince."

"Lyarra would never have married you!" said Robb angrily, rage surging in his heart as he swung his sword at Ramsay. "You are a bastard, even now! No lady of noble blood will ever wed you!" He swore as Ramsay's sword cut deeply into his shoulder. He suddenly ducked to avoid Ramsay's curled fist hitting his face. Fury was etched on the Bastard of Bolton's expression.

 _Make him mad_. It was easier to wound a rabid and reckless man than one with a clear mind. "None of the other northern lords will accept you as a Bolton," Robb said savagely, concentrating on his direct blows towards Ramsay's chest. "If they can't even do that, what makes you think they'll accept you as Lord of Winterfell? My House ruled from Winterfell for centuries – they will continue to do so till the end of time. No _bastard_ of House Bolton will take Winterfell away!"

With a roar, Ramsay drove his sword into Robb's leg. Robb attempted to crawl away – too late. With his other leg pinned down by Ramsay's weight, Robb could not move. He tried to strike Ramsay on the head with his sword, but Ramsay had knocked the sword away effortlessly. "I am going to enjoy this," Ramsay hissed at Robb. He yanked his sword out and drove it back into Robb's leg. Robb bit his lip to suppress a cry of pain.

Suddenly, Robb remembered Ser Rodrik's words to him during his first sword practice lesson with the other boys. "Use your head!" Ser Rodrik had barked from his spot on the sparring yard. " _Use_ it, lads! You have to _think!_ There is no use just standing there waving that wooden sword around like an idiot! Think how to win against your enemy! Where's the best place to hit them? Stab them? Wound them even? If you're pinned down and your sword and shield away from you what will you do? _You use your head_."

Bracing himself for a big soon-to-be headache, Robb slammed his head against Ramsay Snow's forehead. The Bastard of Bolton cursed. Seizing the chance, Robb yanked both his arms from Ramsay's slacking grasp. Mustering all his energy, he curled his fingers into a fist and he punched Ramsay Snow right in the eye. As the bastard swore and retreated, Robb scrambled up and grabbed his sword, aware of the pain burning in his leg. Limping into a solid battle stand, Robb steadied his grip on his sword, and without a second of hesitancy or doubt, pushed the sharp blade deep into Ramsay Snow's shoulder.

Growling like one of his rabid dogs, Ramsay pulled out a dagger and with what sounded like an inhumane snarl, launched himself at Robb again, stabbing him in the arm again and again. It hurt like hell, but at least it wasn't his sword arm.

Considering Ramsay used a dagger and a sword, it seemed the traditional rule of using one weapon in single combat was now invalid. Robb pulled his dirk from his belt and swiftly stabbed it into the Bastard of Bolton's throat.

Ramsay Snow staggered back, clutching his throat and gurgling. His sword fell to the ground with a dull thud. Shock was clear in his pale eyes. Both his arm and leg burning in agony, Robb limped a little closer to the Bolton bastard, praying he was dead. A speck of hope soared within Robb as he watched Ramsay Snow drop down, his blood still spurting out from his throat and onto the ground.

"He's dead," said a soldier in awe. He looked at Robb. " _He's dead_."

Robb nodded, too tired to speak. For a moment, there was only silence. "Have his head removed," he said at last. "Put it on a spike. Let it be a warning to any of the other Bolton men or potential traitors out there that House Bolton is no more and rebellion will not be tolerated in the North."

"And the Bolton Bastard's body?"

Robb was tempted to order them to leave the bastard's body out for the crows, but instead he said, "Ensure his body is burnt." He cried out in surprise and pain as he felt teeth sink into his already bleeding leg. Robb glanced down and saw an angry dog with its teeth in his leg. "Kill those dogs!" he shouted, driving his blood coated sword into the large dog's body. "Now!" He wrenched his sword back out of the dog and stabbed it into another hound that sprung towards him. It was not long before Robb found himself and his soldiers covered with blood, surrounded by the corpses of dead dogs and their master, Ramsay Snow. "There will be more of these bloodthirsty hounds around," said Robb, wincing in pain. "I remember a lot more of these hounds in the Hornwood. We should also meet up quickly with the other men and round up the Bolton men still present."

"We'll take care of that milord," said a soldier promptly. He glanced pointedly at Robb's wounded leg and arm. "You should have your injuries looked at by the maester and taken care of at once."

Robb was torn. He desperately wanted to find Dany and his family; he desired to participate in hunting down the remaining Bolton men; and he really wanted a bandage for his leg and one for his arm.

"You can barely walk with that leg," another soldier pointed out, wiping blood from his face. "You must have it taken care of."

"No. Not yet." Robb leant on his sword. "I will go with you to meet the captains and the other men." He forced out a strained laugh. "I do not want our men at the East Gate to think I'm dead after all." Slowly and in excruciating pain, Robb made his way through the godswood and towards the armoury with his soldiers. They then proceeded into the armoury, and into the smaller courtyard that was closest to the East Gate. To Robb's astonishment, the courtyard was already littered with dead bodies. Upon closer examination, Robb realised they were a mix of both the Bolton men and Stark men amongst the dead.

"There was an ambush," said a soldier, walking up to Robb. "Those Bolton men jumped on us like savages. I fought wildlings before milord, and I can tell you, not many of them are as savage as the Bolton men. One of them tried to bite me!"

"Savage," agreed the soldier standing next to Robb.

"Ecton's patrolling the castle grounds with some men. You should get that arm and leg inspected milord. Maester Luwin is bandaging some of my men right now milord. They are in the First Keep. Not very far milord."

"First Keep?" Robb was puzzled. "Maester Luwin was hiding there this whole time?" He limped towards the First Keep and was surprised to see the squat and round drum tower transformed into a temporary area for the wounded. A broad smile slowly spread on his blood-splattered face as he caught sight of Gwenysse, Arthur and Rickon running around with linen sheets, bandages and small vials of medicines, potions and ointments.

"ROBB!" Arthur shrieked, spotting him in an instance. Everyone looked up and the quiet murmurs grew. Maester Luwin appeared, his grey robes tarnished with blood. He shuffled up to Robb, his eyes filled with concern and slight relief.

Robb managed a grin. "Maester Luwin."

The maester's grey eyes fell to the two soldiers who were lugging the Bastard of Bolton's body. He looked at Robb questioningly, but said, "I must take a look at your wounds, my lord. The longer they remain unattended, the more the wounds will fester. Come, my lord."

"What do we do with the body milord?" inquired a soldier.

"Burn him," ordered Robb, "but remove the head and stick it on a pike. Go and interrogate the prisoners – if there are any."

"Interrogate them on what milord?"

"Ramsay Snow. His motives. The layout of the Dreadfort. The Hornwood battle. Winter town." He paused. "And Lady Arrana Umber." The Greatjon would return soon and he would need to know the fate of his daughter. To his knowledge, and to Robb's, all had been well for Lady Arrana and Domeric Bolton in the Dreadfort in the last few months. Lord Umber seemed to have assumed they were husband and wife; Robb believed it too.

"Come now Lord Robb," said Maester Luwin gently.

Robb took a few steps and stopped when he saw Lady Alys Karstark and Lady Meera Reed washing their hands in a basin. Lady Alys had to be told…

Wait. Where was Daenerys? Surely she'd be with the ladies?

"Where's my wife?" asked Robb, glancing around. "Where's Daenerys?" To his alarm, the maester looked at him with pity and sadness. Robb felt his heart drop like a stone in the pond when he heard the words Maester Luwin uttered:

"I'm afraid my lord, Lady Daenerys is dead."

* * *

The pain in Robb's bandaged leg and arm did not match the throbbing pain in Robb's heart when he stared down at Daenerys's pale, lifeless face. Her eyes shut, she looked to be at peace. Someone had placed her on a long table and moved her hands into a clasping position over her chest. She was still wearing the gown she wore when she gave birth to the children. _Our children_. A lump formed in Robb's throat. _I am a terrible husband_ , reflected Robb, tears in his violet eyes. Every day, Daenerys was worried for him. She was concerned he'd die in battle; Robb hadn't even considered the prospect of Dany dying of childbed fever.

"Robb." Maester Luwin had appeared at Robb's side for the third time that day. "You've been here in the First Keep for hours. Your bandages need changing and you need to rest. You have not slept for a whole day."

"How can I sleep?" croaked Robb, his throat dry. "How can I sleep knowing my wife is dead? Of childbed fever!"

"Women oft die of childbed fever."

"The last words I said to her…" Robb wiped his eyes. "I said I will return to her soon and we would hold our child together. I didn't even think about Dany when I was ridding the Hornwood of the bandits with my mine. What husband doesn't even think about his own wife when they are apart?"

"Robb, many husbands don't think about their lady wives at all except when it comes to having heirs. When it comes to war, it is better your mind isn't occupied with thoughts about your wife. Especially when you are about to attack."

"Dany is _dead_ …"

"You have two daughters, Robb. Two dear daughters that haven't yet met their father. You must accept that your lady wife is dead and you have children to raise. I am aware it will be difficult, but it must be done."

"I suppose the children are unnamed?" Robb did not wait for an answer. "They will be named Rhaena and Danny." To his surprise Maester Luwin pursed his lips disapprovingly. "Lady Daenerys named your daughters," he told him. "She called them Lysara and Alysanne before she died."

"Lysara and Alysanne Stark," Robb tried. Respectable names, both of them. It'd not be a revelation to discover both of them somewhere in his family. "I will look and hold them tonight," he said quietly. "They are settled in the nursery already? I hope Rickon does not disturb them."

"I have taken the liberty to put your brothers in a different chamber. They are both quite excited and sleeping is the last thing on their mind. If you desire your brothers to return to the nursery, it can be arranged." Maester Luwin paused and looked at Daenerys. "Lady Daenerys will be buried in the crypts soon."

"I want a sculpture commissioned for her."

"You must speak to your lord father about that, Robb."

Robb was silent. _Father_. It felt like years since his whole family was here with him at Winterfell. There were times when Father was here while Mother was not, when Lyarra and Domeric were at the Dreadfort, Gwenysse at Dorne and Bran at King's Landing…but Daenerys and Jon had always been here.

Now they were both gone.

 _No_ , said a voice in Robb's head. _Jon only disappeared – he could still be alive. It isn't too late to send out search parties_.

"What of the few prisoners still alive?" inquired Robb, looking at Daenerys for the last time before turning away. "Did they give us any answers?"

Maester Luwin hesitated. "Not pleasant answers, but yes. Lord Umber and his men have been sighted coming back. He will be here soon."

"He'll be wanting answers."

Maester Luwin nodded. "Winter town must also be repaired quickly and food sent out. There is…another matter."

Robb limped out the First Keep and felt a strong gust of cold wind slice against his face like Ramsay Snow's blade. "What is it?"

"Your father is coming home, and so is your mother. And Arya."

* * *

 **In this story, Mace just wants Margaery married into the royal family. Queen would be nice, but Mace is happy that Margaery is a Baratheon by marriage (Baratheon widow in his eyes currently). He knows nothing of Olenna's dealings with Varys, Doran Martell and Jon Connington in restoring the Targaryens hence why he is still buttering up and being overly helpful to the Baratheons.**

 **I wanted to try writing a single combat scene and decided to take the opportunity to put one in this chapter. Not fully pleased with it, but there'll always be chances to improve single combat and battle scenes :)**


	111. Eddard XVI

Joy and laughter led Ned to the Eyrie; sadness and silence took him home. In a normal situation, Ned would be delighted to return to Winterfell. This time it was not a cause to rejoice.

"Will Bran be alright?" Arya's voice broke the mantle of silence.

"He'll be safe." Ned glanced at Ashara who had answered. Ashara stared ahead, unable to meet his eye. "Unless the Dornish or this Aegon Targaryen have two or three dragons with them," Ashara continued, "they wouldn't be foolish enough to march to the Vale and attack. Everyone knows the Eyrie is impregnable."

"I'm surprised you didn't insist for me to stay there Mother," commented Arya, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Ned looked at her. "Winterfell is safe too, Arya. We did not want to press upon Lady Arryn's hospitality either. Did you wish to stay with Bran?"

"He is my brother," said Arya hesitantly, with no trace of mockery in her voice at this point. "It feels wrong of us leaving him there. What if Lady Arryn forgets to have the maester inspect him? She isn't exactly reasonable, is she?"

"Arya!" Unease settled within Ned as the barge slowly drew closer to a pier at White Harbour. Though he admonished Arya for her rudeness, he could not help but dwell on the matter. What Arya uttered, bore seeds of truth. Lady Lysa Arryn was at times a hysterical woman and incapable of thinking of other people except her own children. However, it was almost impossible to bring Bran back home to Winterfell if he was to have a full recovery.

The barge came to a stop and the other northerners present on the deck began to descend from the ship and onto the dock. Ned followed. Initially he planned to ride to Winterfell, but as travelling by sea was considerably faster, he decided the journey home would be by barge. Ashara did not complain to the chance of plans, but Arya looked slightly disappointed that she wouldn't be able to ride her horse for the majority of the journey.

"How long do you plan for us to stay here?" said Ashara softly.

"Not long," Ned murmured back. His eyes slid to Lady Wylla Manderly who'd drawn Arya into an animated discussion. "I rather we leave in the afternoon but I am certain Lord Manderly will insist upon hosting us in New Castle for a day and a night, if not two. As Lord Manderly is one of my most powerful bannermen, it'll be of a great discourtesy if we reject his offer – especially when I plan to summon a host of soldiers to march south. If not for the wildling war, the lords may be of a more tolerate nature, but as they have already lost men in that particular war…" He shook his head. "My bannermen will grumble. They are loyal, but proud. They will not want to fight a southron war at a time like this."

" _Lyarra_ is in danger. It's their duty to help save their liege lord's daughter."

 _Their liege lord's daughter who is half-Dornish_. "What of House Dayne?" He had rarely mentioned Ashara's House after their wedding. "Will your nephew fight on the Dornish side or on the side of King Orys?"

Ashara shrugged. "Edric is still squiring for my good-brother Lord Dondarrion. Under Lord Dondarrion's influence, he'd probably send troops in the name of our king – King Orys." She hesitated. "However, his wife is a Martell and the Martells are currently our enemies. Not many Dornishmen will rebel against their lord or lady and Edric is in no position to fight alone against the rest of Dorne. If he even protests against fighting for this false Aegon, I believe he would lose his titles and lands to our cousin Ser Gerold Dayne of High Hermitage."

"What would you counsel Edric?"

Ashara stopped and frowned. She crossed her arms. "Are you assuming that I was aware of all this and on the side of the Dornish?"

"No!" exclaimed Ned. "Nothing like that at all!" As he and Ashara walked down the steps of the barge to one of the docks of White Harbour, silence returned.

"Lord Stark!" boomed Lord Wyman Manderly, waddling towards Ned. He gave Ned a broad grin. "Lady Stark!" He kissed Ashara's hand. He turned around, with his massive belly bumping into some of Ned's men. "Where's Lady Arya and Lord Brandon?" He looked at Ned expectedly.

"Arya is over there my lord Manderly," said Ned, nodding at Arya who froze in her tracks like a guilty thief. "My son Bran…" He hesitated. There had been talk of continuing Bran's education here at White Harbour. He couldn't possibly say that Bran was in the Eyrie. It might lead Lord Manderly to the wrong conclusions. "He was wounded in a melee," Ned said finally. The truth was best. "Due to the events that occurred, Ashara and I thought it was better to allow him to recover safely in the Eyrie than endure a strenuous journey to Winterfell." He slowly walked with Lord Manderly in the direction of New Castle, House Manderly's seat. Waiting for Lord Wyman and Ned were horses and an enormous wheelhouse decorated with carvings of mermaids holding tridents – the Manderly sigil. "There are horses for all your men," said Lord Manderly generously, waving a large, plump hand at the herd of horses. "A palfrey for Lady Arya if she wishes to ride."

Ned could not resist a smile as he noticed Arya brightening considerably. Arya was never one to remain still for long – unless she was catching cats. Before Arya could even ask, Ned gave her a nod of assent. "You may ride to New Castle on the condition that you ride beside one of my men."

"Yes Father," said Arya immediately.

"What of you?" Ned heard Lord Manderly ask his granddaughter Lady Wylla. "I know you like riding too."

Ned would've preferred to stretch his legs and ride a bit too, but he was aware that Lord Manderly wished to talk to him and as the Lord of White Harbour could no longer ride, it was the wheelhouse for both of them.

"Lady Stark." Lord Wyman was now addressing Ashara. "Care to join your lord husband and I in the wheelhouse?"

"I'll be honoured Lord Manderly," Ashara responded with a dazzling smile.

The three of them – Ned, Ashara and Lord Manderly – headed to the enormous wheelhouse. The servant in Manderly colours opened the wheelhouse door. Lord Manderly gestured for Ned to climb in. "After you of course, Lord Stark," the Lord of White Harbour said genially, "and you, Lady Stark."

Ned stepped into the wheelhouse. Wheelhouses weren't common in the North as northmen preferred to ride. There were litters, but even then, they were not a usual sight. In fact, it was Ned's first time to see the interior of a wheelhouse. The seats were covered with plump blue-green silk cushions and the matching silken curtains were pulled and tied back from the window.

"Your wheelhouse is lovely," spoke Ashara as Lord Manderly squeezed in with a grunt. The servant closed the door behind him.

"One of House Manderly's finest," chuckled Lord Manderly, as the wheelhouse began to move. "Many of my family members are keen riders, but happen to also be lovers of fine feasts." He patted his huge belly and chortled. "When riding is no longer possible, we travel in wheelhouses. It was my grandfather Lord Medmore who first thought of utilising wheelhouses. Now he was a Manderly who loved all his fine wine and food more than exercise! He could barely move and even one of the strongest litters could not carry him. How was he to attend the harvest feast? He ordered a wheelhouse to be made for him."

Ned smiled politely.

"How was my granddaughter?" questioned Lord Manderly. "She wrote to me a great number of letters when she was at King's Landing. It seemed like she vastly enjoyed her time at court."

"Lyarra enjoyed her company," Ashara told him. "She was delighted to have an old friend at King's Landing with her."

Lord Manderly beamed with pride. "My granddaughters know their duty well, Lord Stark, and will declare their loyalty towards House Stark quite willingly and proudly." He paused and stroked his beard. "Lord Ryswell had offered one of his younger brothers for my granddaughter Wynafryd," he said casually. Ned almost smiled. He was expecting this from Lord Manderly. "A good match eh? If it occurs, and Wynafryd and her Ryswell husband have children, they will be Manderlys of course, not Ryswells. I hope an equally prestigious match can be made for Wylla." He laughed amicably. "Perhaps a southron one!"

"I don't think you need to look for a southron match," said Ned, glancing at his wife who nodded slightly. "House Manderly had always been loyal to my House – it still is today. My second son Bran, always wanted to be a knight. He had spent a great deal of time in King's Landing and it is time to educate him into a northman. I do not wish to disappoint him in depriving him of a chance to be a knight and of all the noble Houses in the North, your House believes in knighthood more and it will do Bran some good to squire here for your son Ser Wylis, if you consent. If all goes well and you and Ser Wylis are pleased with Bran's progress, a match can be made between Bran and your granddaughter Lady Wylla. I also plan to bestow a keep and lands upon Bran once he reaches manhood – Wolf's Den perhaps."

"Certainly!" boomed Lord Manderly, his expression one of pleasure. His brows furrowed. "Did you not say earlier that Lord Brandon is recovering from a wound in the Eyrie, Lord Stark?"

Ned nodded. "I did indeed, Lord Manderly. Once Bran recovers, I plan to bring him home for a few months before sending him here. He will need rest at home a few months. Settle in and everything." Bran had not set foot in Winterfell in quite some time. _Will he still consider it home?_ Ned wondered. Of course Bran would be still considering Winterfell home! He's a Stark after all.

"New Castle always welcomes Starks," Lord Manderly was saying. "If you're in need of supplies, furs, troops, House Manderly will give them willingly to you and House Stark, my lord."

Seizing the opportunity, Ned said bluntly, "There's a Dornish uprising in King's Landing, Lord Manderly. The Dornish declared themselves loyal to one king and that is Aegon Targaryen. Rhaegar's dead son."

Lord Manderly's eyes widened. "You jest, Lord Stark."

Ned shook his head. "I will not jest on a matter like that. There is no doubt that this Aegon Targaryen is an imposter – a descendant of Targaryen bastards or one blessed with the Valyrian features perhaps. Whatever the case, the Dornish and a number of noble Houses have declared for the false Aegon. Lord Manderly, as I'm sure you've heard, King Robert is dead. It is Orys who is king now."

"Indeed." Lord Manderly stroked his beard again. "Will it be war?"

"Most likely, Lord Manderly. I am not heading to Winterfell for safety. I plan to travel there to summon my troops. King Orys is my good-son and I will aid him in any way I can. My daughter Lyarra…she is in King's Landing. She is also pregnant. If the Dornish and the false Aegon win, they will not be kind to her."

"My men are at your disposal Lord Stark. My sons Wylis and Wendel will be in charge of them. My barges are at yours too."

"That is generous of you Lord Manderly." _Nothing comes without a price_. "Your aid will not be forgotten."

* * *

" _He wants_ _the Hornwood?_ "

Ned grimaced. The brief stay at White Harbour was refreshing, but as Ned had expected, showed hints of Lord Manderly's ambitions. _It's my fault for bringing up the southron matter though._ He cursed himself for falling into Lord Wyman's trap. He now strongly suspected that Lord Manderly had already caught wind of what was happening in the south.

Ashara shook her head with a sigh. "Wise that you said you would consider it. If this is Lord Manderly's reaction, I do not want to know what the other lords of the North will say or bargain for. The Hornwood! Poor Lady Hornwood. A widow and sonless." She hesitated. "I was unaware of Daryn Hornwood's death. I didn't even know Lady Hornwood's husband died either in such a short time. There are no Hornwoods left. Plenty with Hornwood blood who will no doubt fight for their claim to the Hornwood with Lady Hornwood still alive and grieving. Horrible. If I was Lady Hornwood and I received a proposal of marriage, I'd frighten him away with a good smacking."

"Is that not ladylike, Mother?" said Arya, listening in.

Ashara snorted. "Imagine you are a sonless widow who is past childbearing. If I was a young man, I wouldn't marry an old widow, but if she is the last of a noble House, even by marriage, that is an enticing offer. It would be clear that the man wanted to marry her for her lands."

"I would kill him," said Arya promptly. "He has no right to offer me marriage if my husband died the day before."

"Fair enough."

Ned stared at Ashara in astonishment. For months, Ashara attempted to teach Arya to improve in her sewing and other feminine activities and she'd voiced her displeasure in Arya practising with Needle – and now this?

" _What?_ " said Arya, her mouth wide open in shock.

"Apparently that's what one of my ancestors did," said Ashara, smiling. "She'd been a Yronwood at birth and she married a Dayne. Their children died young of a fever and the Sword of the Morning died in battle at the age of fifty. Though the lady was fifty as well, the day after her husband's death, came a flurry of wedding proposals, some from messengers and some from the potential suitors. I believe the youngest suitor was a boy of fourteen. It was obvious they wanted Starfall for themselves. The lady was enraged and killed the lot of them."

"What of the consequences?" Arya's eyes were as wide as dishes. "Father said that if you anger a lord, you anger the lord _and_ his noble House."

Ashara shrugged. "There was a range of different endings to that tale. Some do say that she was punished and her body left out in the desert; other say she killed herself to avoid being married off to another man. Either way, Starfall was given to her late husband's distant cousin Ser Damon Dayne, whose wife was late Lady Dayne's daughter from her first marriage to a Blackmont. That tale was probably full of fiction with very little truth in it. Even for a Dornishwoman, killing lords or knights to avoid marriage seems a bit extreme." Ned smiled slightly to himself as he heard Arya ask Ashara another question. During their time in the south, there had been more arguments than conversations between them. It felt good to hear Ashara and Arya speak on more civil terms again.

Allowing Ashara and Arya to talk alone, Ned rode forward and watched Theon jape with some of the household guards. Cley Cerwyn was to be part of the party, but he had volunteered to represent the northern support and rode off with King Orys with his southron wife, Lady Roslin Frey. _Theon is not a child_ , Ned reflected, keeping an eye on the heir of Pyke. _He is a man grown now. It is time he returned to the Iron Islands to take his place as heir, but is it a good idea?_ Theon had been at Winterfell for twelve years and probably in the eyes of the Ironborn, was more a northerner than an Ironborn.

Now was not a good time to release Theon though, with the Seven Kingdoms a few steps away from war. _Until there's peace once more_ , Ned promised. _Once Orys Baratheon is safe on the Iron Throne, I will propose the termination of Theon's stay as guest at Winterfell._ A bride must be provided for Theon though. Ned shook his head. His thoughts should be on preparing for war!

As Ned rode closer to Winterfell, the sight of tarred heads stuck on spikes atop Winterfell's battlements caused him to pull his horse into a skidding halt. _What in the old gods is going on?_ Ned disliked putting heads on spikes – he rarely did – as it did not serve a particular purpose during peaceful times. A thought occurred to Ned. Was it Domeric Bolton's suggestion that Robb decided to use?

Theon turned to Ned. "Lord Stark, winter town is no more."

Ned spurred his horse towards him and stared at what was once winter town. There were over a dozen men busily building and repairing houses and stalls and cleaning the streets of ashes. To Ned's horror, there was a cart stacked high with bodies that bore traces of stab wounds.

One of the workers turned that moment and spotted Ned. "Milord Stark!"

"Erick," said Ned, recognising the man. Erick was a builder – he was part of an esteemed family of builders who had oft built furniture for the Starks as well as a dozen (if not more) benches and long tables for inns and taverns in winter town. "Erick," Ned said again, dismounting his horse and walking up to the builder. "I'm afraid I've been travelling for the last week and received no raven. Tell me, Erick, what happened here?" He gestured to their surroundings. "When I left Winterfell, winter town was well and flourishing."

"There was a battle milord," Erick responded. "The Bolton Bastard led a large host of men and invaded winter town. They pillaged, raped and burnt and then in the middle of all this chaos, the Bolton Bastard infiltrated Winterfell and declared himself Lord of Winterfell."

A chill ran down Ned's spine. "Where was Robb? Where is my family? Is…" He swallowed deeply. "Is Robb still alive?"

Erick nodded. "Lord Robb is still alive milord. Recovering from wounds he had gained in battle, but still alive. He fought the Bolton Bastard himself and won." He hesitated. "There was a funeral here yesterday, I believe. Heard it was a lady that died. Not sure who though milord."

"Is the Bastard of Bolton dead?" questioned Ned.

"Aye milord. It was Lord Robb who killed him."

Ned thanked the builder and headed straight for the castle, the sound of Arya, Ashara, Theon and the other northmen calling after him faint and muffled by the loud buzz of worry that echoed in Ned's mind. Ned headed straight to the solar – he stopped in his tracks when he heard a babe's cry from the nursery.

 _A babe's cry._

Rickon had ceased crying years ago. He whined and howled like a direwolf but he'd rarely cried after his first name day. _Daenerys birthed the babe_ , Ned thought, remembering the news of his good-daughter's pregnancy. Instead of relief, it was apprehension that remained with him. What if the false Aegon declared to all the world that Daenerys was in truth a Targaryen? She'd no longer be safe here; nor would her child.

Butterflies fluttered wildly in Ned's stomach as he entered the nursery. As was expected, there were a cluster of ladies in there. Lady Alys Karstark was present, his daughter Gwenysse was there too, as was Lady Meera Reed. Next to Lady Alys was Robb. Where was Daenerys? Surely the proud mother would be there?

"Father," said Robb, spotting him. A smile spread on Robb's face. Ned couldn't help notice the dark shadows under Robb's eyes and the bruises, scratches and a scar or two that embellished Robb's cheeks. _He's a man now_. A rather ancient and First Men saying was that a man wasn't a man until he received his first war scar in battle. The Umbers and the mountain clans still followed that tradition as did a branch of House Flint. There were probably other noble Houses too. Ned beamed back at Robb and embraced him warmly.

"Thank the old gods you are back," said Robb, breaking away. "Maester Luwin told me a week ago and I am so relieved, Father."

"We'll talk more of Winterfell and the North later," said Ned, clapping him on a shoulder. "For now, tell me about your child."

" _Children_ , Lord Stark," spoke Lady Alys, moving away, revealing two cribs. "It's twins – both girls." Ned stared at Robb's two daughters. _My grandchildren_. One – the babe with darker brown hair – was awake and smiled at him, waving her tiny hands in the air. The other – the babe with brown hair a shade lighter – was fast asleep, wrapped cosily in furs.

"Lysara and Alysanne," said Robb, pointing first at the awake babe and then at the sleeping child. "Daenerys named them before…" His voice trailed off.

"Before?" prompted Ned. The ladies present glanced at each other and quietly left the nursery, leaving him alone with Robb and the twins.

"She's dead," said Robb, shaking with emotions. "Dany's _dead_ , Father. She died giving birth to the twins. How could this have happened? Dany was young! It was wrong – she shouldn't have died."

"It happens," said Ned gently, as the nursery door opened softly. He looked up and saw Ashara and Arya hovering hesitantly at the doorstep. "Death will take all of us at the end. Daenerys didn't die in vain; she birthed you two daughters."

"Ned," said Ashara softly. Ned and Robb looked at her. "I didn't wish to intrude, but Maester Luwin gave me an urgent letter from Lyarra."

His heart sinking, Ned dared to ask, "What is it?"

"King's Landing has fallen. The gold cloaks betrayed Lord Stannis. Lyarra's his prisoner, Ned. The false Aegon has Lyarra."

* * *

 **komninosmichaelides , I definitely agree with you about Daenerys in canon and thank you so much for reading and reviewing! **

**So Ned is back in Winterfell - for how long? :) I'll try to upload chapters a bit more often, but I'm afraid uni work just gets in the way these days as does work. Ah well, 1 chapter per week is better than none :D**


	112. Shireen I

The icy winds shook Shireen awake from a fitful rest. With grains of fatigue in her eyes, she sat up and looked around.

"We are almost there my lady."

Shireen smiled tiredly at Devan Seaworth, who had spoken. There were dark shadows under Devan's brown eyes – had he slept at all? Shireen looked down at her wounded father, who was still unconscious. Three days ago, they – the Onion Knight, Devan, Father and herself – were still living in the Red Keep preparing for a siege. Father was checking the food stores and readying the castle defences – it all changed when the gold cloaks opened the city gates, declaring for King Aegon Targaryen the Sixth of His Name.

The hour that followed was awful. So many of Father's men Shireen knew had been slaughtered and one of the false Aegon's men wounded Father in the arm. It was mayhem. Ladies and children were locked in their rooms and those wearing Baratheon badges were roughly cut down where they stood. It was thanks to Ser Davos and Devan that Father was still alive.

Dressed in plain clothes, Shireen and her father were smuggled out of the Red Keep by Ser Davos and Devan. Father's wound was bandaged and he was given a drop or two of milk of the poppy to help him deal with the pain. It was something Father wouldn't have approved as he did not like milk of the poppy helping ease the pain, but it was a matter of urgency. Ser Davos then managed to find a cart in relatively good condition and place Father (with Devan's help) on it. Shireen and Devan boarded the cart as well and Ser Davos attached the cart to a horse and in a rapid speed, smuggled them out of King's Landing and rode in the directions of the Stormlands without stopping all afternoon. The poor horse was worn out yet Ser Davos was adamant in his decision not to stop and rest until they reached the seat of House Errol, Haystack Hall.

"Why Haystack Hall?" Shireen remembered asking the Onion Knight. "Storm's End is surely a safer choice."

"Storm's End will be the first place the false dragon and his men will hunt for us milady," Ser Davos had responded. "If not Storm's End, then they will look for you and Lord Baratheon at Greenstone, the seat of your Estermont relations. It'll be best for your lord father to recover in a location the false dragon will not think to look like Haystack Hall or Evenfall Hall." Shireen suddenly understood another reason why Ser Davos decided on those locations: both were ideally located close to the Narrow Sea. If it comes to it, Ser Davos could smuggle her and Father both to Essos and when it comes to the sea, Ser Davos was a master of smuggling. She had wondered if Haystack Hall was safe as it was quite close to Parchments, seat of House Penrose. The Penroses were honourable and loyal to Father, but they'd had excellent relations with the Targaryens in the past…

"Ser Davos?" said Shireen softly.

The Onion Knight glanced at her quickly before turning back to the front. "Aye, milady? What is it?"

"Thank you for helping me and my father."

"Only doing my duty milady." The Onion Knight gave her a small smile, yet his eyes were full of worry. Shireen recognised that expression well.

"What of Casterly Rock?" Shireen said quietly to Devan. "Do you think my late mother's family would help us?"

"They wouldn't welcome your lord father my lady," said Devan honestly. "Your father wanted justice more than House Lannister's support." Shireen was pleased at Devan's bluntness. Lately, more young courtiers approached and spoke to her, but their words were so often coated with obvious flattery that Shireen found it a little amusing. "Is that a new gown, Lady Shireen?" a Tyrell girl had simpered to her during a feast. "It looks beautiful." What Shireen had worn that night was one of her old dresses she had worn twice before.

"My uncle Tyrion will not abandon us."

"He is not the Lord of Casterly Rock though, my lady."

Shireen nodded sadly. "A great pity."

"At least the Lannisters will not ally themselves with the false dragon. Not that the false dragon will want them anyway my lady."

Shireen sighed. "How many times did I tell you to call me Shireen? You are one of my closest friends, Devan."

Devan looked uncomfortable. "I'm your father's squire, my lady. He will not be pleased if he discovers me calling you by your ah, name my lady." He then offered her a slice of bread. "Bread?" Shireen shook her head. Her stomach was crammed full with anxiety and unease – it had been for the whole day. Looking down at her father, Shireen wished she had learnt more about nursing. If she had, she'd know how to keep Father alive. She needed him; her family needed him; the realm was in need of him. It was not the right time for Father to die.

 _May the Seven have mercy_ , Shireen prayed, staring at the hazy outline of House Errol's keep as Ser Davos urged the horse closer. _May the Seven spare Father_. _May the Stranger look the other way_. It was unfair of Maester Jurne to have said to her, "You do not need to learn the skills of nursing, Lady Shireen. You're already quite a charitable lady and that is plenty. Furthermore you are…uh, afflicted with-" He had made an excuse and hurried away. Shireen darkened at that memory. It was her cheek that bore the remnants of greyscale, not her hands.

"Are you worried about your sister and brothers, my lady?" Devan's words led Shireen away from her thoughts. Shireen nodded, suppressing a wince when she heard Devan say 'sister'. _I had two, even if Myrcella was not Father's_.

"Cassana and Steffon are both at the Eyrie," said Shireen, gazing ahead. "I hope they are safe there. It'd be disastrous if they attempt to come home." _Where is our home? Storm's End or King's Landing?_ "Robert is at Storm's End. He will be safe. I pray that he is." Father seemed keen on Robert having a career as a knight of the Kingsguard and summoned the finest swordsmen of the Stormlands to come and instruct Robert at Storm's End. "Are you worried about your brothers?"

Devan nodded. "My older brothers are either attending their ships or also with Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana and Lord Arryn at the Eyrie. They are good with a shield and sword…" He hesitated. "But they are better on a warship. My younger brothers should be safe with my mother. I haven't seen them in quite some time. To my knowledge, they are either still with Mother at the Rainwood or learning a bit about letters and numbers in the schoolroom at Storm's End. Lord Baratheon had always been kind to us Seaworths."

"We won't forget it either," Ser Davos called. "Milady, we are almost there." He pulled the reins of his horse to a halt as three Errol men rode towards them from Haystack Hall's gates.

"Merchants and tradesmen cannot come at this hour," the man with whiskers said sternly. He looked at Shireen and then at Devan with suspicion. "We aren't at all interested in disfigured whores either." Shireen's mouth dropped open. She'd heard many cruel words taunted at her before, but _disfigured whore?_ Devan leapt out of the cart and said hotly to the Errol men, "That is Lady Shireen Baratheon, a daughter of the Hand of the King and a royal cousin to King Orys Baratheon. If he – the king – hears you called his beloved cousin a disfigured whore, he'll demand your head. I can assure you of that."

Shireen felt her cheeks redden as the Errol men's eyes flickered towards her a second time, one of them blushing from embarrassment.

"I'm Ser Davos Seaworth, Lord of the Rainwood," said Ser Davos promptly. He pointed at Devan. "My son Devan." He gestured to Shireen. "Lady Shireen. If all of you care to look in the cart, you'll see that we have the wounded Lord Baratheon, who was stabbed in the arm by one of the false dragon's men. He needs help."

"False dragon?" One of the Errol men frowned. "Are you mad, Onion Knight?"

"The gold cloaks betrayed us," spoke Shireen. "There is war. We travelled for a good many days without proper rest. We seek shelter and the hospitality of your lord, Lord Errol." She had met the previous head of House Errol, Lady Shyra, and liked her. Lady Shyra was kind to everyone and was very gracious. Sadly she died a year ago from falling from her horse, and now it was her cousin Sebastion, who was Lord of Haystack Hall. Shireen had never met Lord Sebastion before and the only rare piece of news she heard about him was that he had married the elderly Lord Penrose's granddaughter, Lady Laera Penrose.

"Of-of course milady," stammered the third guard. He turned and shouted to a waiting guard, " _OPEN THE GATES!_ "

Shireen almost sighed with relief. Father needed to be attended to at once. The cart moved again, slowly through the gates and into Haystack Hall's courtyard. It was a solid castle, Haystack Hall. It wasn't small, nor large; a modest size. Waving high on the three round turrets were the banners bearing the Errol sigil: a yellow haystack, on an orange field.

Once Ser Davos pulled the horse to a stop again, he climbed down and helped Shireen out of the cart before grabbing hold of Father with Devan. A couple more Errol men came and aided Ser Davos and Devan.

"No, no, allow me," said another Errol man hurrying to seize Father's legs from Ser Davos's slackening grip. "Lord Errol will be expecting you, your son and Lady Shireen in the Great Hall immediately, Lord Seaworth. My men and I can take the King's Hand to the maester. We'll ensure your horse be tended to as well." One of the maidservants who stood nearby stepped up to Shireen and gave her a smile – one that not reached her cold, blue eyes. "You must be Lady Shireen," the woman said with a tone Shireen recognised as false warmth. The woman's eyes flickered at Shireen's left cheek. Shireen's gaze hardened. "I've been instructed to take you to the Great Hall," the woman told her.

"What of Ser Davos and Devan?" asked Shireen.

"They will come too. Lady Errol had instructed me to serve you my lady." That unhappy expression on the woman's face was clear. She had no wish to serve one afflicted by greyscale.

Shireen followed the maidservant inside the keep and into the Great Hall with Ser Davos behind her. Ser Davos had told Devan to go with the Errol men to keep an eye on her father and to ensure he was taken care of at once. Shireen couldn't help but admire Ser Davos's loyalty. He had done so much for her family – he had smuggled onions to Father in Uncle Robert's war, he served Father as the captain of his ships and advisor faithfully and he smuggled Father and herself away from King's Landing at the risk of his own life. There weren't many men or women like Ser Davos Seaworth.

The Great Hall was similar to the other Great Halls Shireen had seen and dined in, which were not that many. There were the large oak doors, the high table atop the dais, four long trestle tables and two empty earths. Lord Errol and his family, had already been seated at the high table.

"Presenting the Lady Shireen of House Baratheon," announced the green-eyed Errol man who stood at the bottom of the dais, "and Ser Davos Seaworth, Lord of the Rainwood." He looked expectantly at Lord Errol.

Shireen watched Lord Sebastion Errol rise from his place. He looked to be of a normal height with pale blue eyes and hair the colour of fresh straw. Like a great number of lords and ladies, Lord Errol wore the colours of his House in fine silk. Lord Sebastion's lips curved into a warm smile and he beckoned for Shireen and Ser Davos to step forward.

"Lady Shireen," said Lord Sebastion, giving Shireen a polite nod. "It is always a tremendous honour to meet my liege lord's family members. I heard from one of my men that your father, Lord Baratheon, is injured. All our prayers are with him, my lady." He turned and gazed at Ser Davos with interest. "The famous Ser Onion Knight!" he declared, "and a fellow lord of the Stormlands. Welcome to my home, Haystack Hall. Any lord, knight or squire is welcome in my castle."

"Thank you milord," said Ser Davos gruffly. "I trust you've heard the news?"

"A minute before your arrival, Lord Seaworth," said Lord Errol swiftly. "Come and join us. Both of you must be famished." He gave a sharp nod at the lords and ladies around him and the majority of them stood up and began walking away to either one of the trestle tables or out the door, leaving the high table abandoned with the exception of Lord Errol, Lady Errol and a grey-haired man.

Hesitating, Shireen climbed up the short steps onto the dais and was seated to Lady Errol's left whilst Ser Davos was given the honour of sitting between the old, grey-haired man and Lord Errol.

"Introductions," said Lord Errol as the servants placed a bowl of hot soup and a generous chunk of bread in front of Shireen. "My wife, Lady Laera Penrose, and my uncle, Ser Stanwell Errol. Ser Stanwell is one of my most trusted advisors and an excellent soldier."

Shireen gave Ser Stanwell Errol and Lady Errol a respectful nod. She looked at her meal as her stomach grumbled. The soup was more of a hearty broth with an aroma of beef and onion wafting towards Shireen's nose. Bits of meat swam with chopped pieces of carrots and onion in the bowl.

As Shireen began to eat, she listened to the Onion Knight, Ser Stanwell and the Lord of Haystack Hall talk.

"I received a letter from a man claiming to be Rhaegar's son," Lord Errol began, breaking his bread in two. "I thought it was a jape of sorts but I heard a couple of days ago from my good-father Ser Cortnay Penrose that _his_ father Lord Penrose, had also received a letter identical to mine. Then there was word that the lords of the Crownlands joined that man – not certain if it was out of fear or loyalty – and the Marcher lords claimed there were Dornish armies amassing on the borders." He shook his head. "So much astonishing news. Utter lunacy."

"It is not lunacy milord Errol," said Ser Davos patiently. "It's _true_. The Dornish have joined the false Aegon and with the Crownlands men, bribed the gold cloaks and invaded King's Landing."

"They slaughtered my father's men," Shireen broke in, her hands shaking. The men and Lady Errol stared at her. "I was there," Shireen continued. "I stood there and those men killed my father's men in front of me. I knew my father's men...all of them…" She took a deep breath. "Some never spoke to me, but I knew all their names. I knew who they were. Watching them die in front of me…"

"How cruel!" exclaimed Lady Errol, shaking her head. "How barbaric!"

Lord Errol looked at Shireen, full of sympathy. "My lady, that's an act of horror that no lady or child should be subjected to. You have my word of honour that no harm will occur when you are here under my roof."

"Thank you my lord," said Shireen, smiling weakly.

"There is no doubt that the false Aegon will have his eyes on the Stormlands," said Ser Davos, returning the conversation to the false Aegon.

"I cannot lead the Storm lords into war," said Lord Errol regretfully. "Like you, Lord Seaworth, I am only a Storm lord. Now if it was Lord _Baratheon_ summoning his bannermen to war, I would answer his calls at once."

"Lord Baratheon's wounded and unconscious," Ser Davos pointed out. "I don't think he's in any position to summon his banners."

"I will." The words slipped through Shireen's lips. For the second time that day – no, that hour – the three men stared at her, Ser Davos impressed, Ser Stanwell a little disdainful and Lord Errol indulgent. "As the eldest child of Lord Baratheon, I summon the banners."

"Laera," said Lord Errol addressing his wife but keeping his eyes on Shireen. "I believe the Lady Shireen had not yet seen our gardens. Why not escort her there?" He smiled benevolently at Shireen.

Shireen liked gardens and would not have objected to a stroll in the gardens of Haystack Hall if not for the fact there was a war looming very closely and naught was done only because Father was wounded and Steffon away in the Vale. _It's not at all like me to say these words,_ Shireen thought worriedly as Ser Davos began to speak again. She had never dreamt of leading men to battle nor being rescued by a knight in shining armour; her dreams revolved around acceptance and a lovely family supper at Storm's End with Father smiling and Mother laughing. _My father rarely smiles and Mother…Mother never laughed_. Shireen pushed those thoughts from her mind. She needed to convince Lord Errol she was proficient and not the terrified, frightened girl he thought she was.

Taking a deep breath, Shireen looked at Lord Errol in the eye and asked, "Lord

Errol, do you wish to have your lands ravaged by sellswords and your title taken away from you? What do you think this false Aegon promised his followers? Gold, lands, titles, power. No one would believe that any ordinary man with Targaryen features to be Rhaegar Targaryen's son unless they were promised lands, jewels, gold and titles. I can assure you, Lord Errol, that even if you declare your House a neutral House, once my cousin King Orys wrests King's Landing from the dragon pretender, he will turn his ire on storm lords who failed to help him. The lords of the Stormlands have served House Baratheon for centuries. My cousin King Orys will be more furious at those who did naught than those who had the nerve to be fighting for the false dragon."

To Shireen's delight, Lord Errol's expression had changed from indulgence to a look of unease.

"You're quite your ah…" said Lord Errol, attempting to find his words. "You're quite a convincing lady, Lady Shireen. Indeed, a Baratheon. However, if your lord father is incapable of leading an army, surely it would fall to your brother Steffon Baratheon? He is still alive and well."

"Steffon cannot call men to war from the Eyrie," said Shireen steadily, "if he is at the Eyrie now. I have no intention of usurping my brother's place as heir. If my brother appears, I will gladly leave him in charge. I am only trying to do my duty, Lord Errol. In the absence of my lord father and brother, I am the eldest daughter and I will call the banners in Lord Baratheon's name."

"Who will lead your men from Storm's End? Forgive me my lady, but I find it a little hard to believe you were trained to fight with a sword."

"There are trusted men at Storm's End."

"You cannot summon the lords here my lady. The false dragon will think that _I_ orchestrated it and will order his men to march here!"

"I doubt the false dragon knows you Lord Errol," said Ser Davos bluntly. "He's from the Free Cities, not here. The most he'll know is the location of the seats of a Great House or two."

"I'll write the letters to all the storm lords," decided Shireen, standing up. "May I use your ravens, Lord Errol?"

"Of course," said Lord Errol uncertainly, standing up too. "The maester will be happy to send all the summons. Our fastest ravens are at your disposal." Shireen thanked him and began to follow the maidservant down the dais steps, out of the Great Hall and plunged into the maze of corridors. _This is not me,_ Shireen couldn't help think sadly. _I would never be so bold, so presumptuous. I would never think of being acting Lady of Storm's End._ She felt her cheeks grow red.

"Are you unwell my lady?" inquired the maidservant, glancing at her.

Shireen shook her head. "A little warm, that is all." She forced herself to smile. What would Father think, when he discovered what she had done? Would Father be pleased she did what she believed was her duty, or would be furious she took it upon herself to deal with a matter that no noble lady should deal with?

"Here is your chamber my lady," said the maidservant, pushing open a door. It was a good-sized room – bigger than Shireen's old bedchamber that is. "I will ask for the maester if it's your wish."

"Later. I must write the letters first."

"Of course my lady." The maidservant closed the door behind Shireen. Shireen looked around, agitation slowly bubbling in her stomach _. Why am I so afraid? The Errols are Father's bannermen – they will never betray us. Why does it feel like they would?_ Shireen shivered. Was it Lord Errol's genial demeanour? The scowl that'd perpetually stayed on Ser Stanwell's face? Lady Errol's silence?

 _We should've ridden to Storm's End_. Dread crept onto Shireen's arms. What the Onion Knight had feared made sense, but there was something he had forgotten: Storm's End had never surrendered or lost in a siege before.

 _We should have ridden to Storm's End. I should've insisted. The Errols are almost strangers – in fact they are. We should never have trusted Lord Errol._

It was too late now; the storm was coming to Haystack Hall.

* * *

 **I'm so busy with work and uni these days that I keep forgetting to upload this chapter. Ugh. This chapter was intended to be an Arianne chapter but it didn't work out so I scrapped it and tried it in Shireen's instead. She might seem a little OOC, but we never really get to read much of Shireen's thoughts in the books as she didn't have a POV chapter. Moreover, she did see people die (in this chapter).**


	113. The King of Westeros

"All hail His Grace Aegon of House Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, and the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms!"

Aegon smiled as he walked on the red carpet towards the Iron Throne, knights, lords and ladies bowing and curtseying. It was much too early to feel triumphant, yet there was a sense of victory springing in Aegon's heart. All his successes with very little bloodshed – it felt too good to be true. _It is true_ , a voice said in Aegon's mind. King's Landing is yours. _You are the true king now_. Well, almost. He needed to be crowned king by the High Septon. That would not be particularly difficult as the High Septon was a coward and could be bribed with ease.

In an excellent mood, Aegon sat on the Iron Throne and looked around. There were still hunting tapestries on the walls – they'd be replaced by dragon skulls of course. Once the quiet chatter in the throne room thinned away to silence, Aegon began to speak. "My lords and ladies," Aegon said loudly and clearly. "The time of the stags are over; House Targaryen rules once more." His violet eyes scanned at the sea of nobles in front of him. Half of them did not care who the king was; only a quarter – if not less – were true Targaryen supporters; and the rest with scowls on their faces were clearly Baratheon loyalists.

A plump, bald man stepped forward with an enigmatic smile. Aegon repressed a cough as the plump man's strong perfume drifted towards him. "You must have a small council of your own, Your Grace," he simpered with a bow. "Men that are true to your House."

Aegon looked at him with faint dislike. His good-grandmother the Lady Olenna, had already told him that the bald man was Varys, Master of Whisperers. _I should not show a supporter such disdain,_ Aegon reflected _. It was Lord Varys who spirited me away to the Free Cities for mine own safety at birth and he'd worked since then to restore me to the Iron Throne, but he did not appear at the Dun Fort…_ It was the last thought that had him pinning derision towards the Spider.

"Of course, Lord Varys," Aegon said at last. He tapped his fingers on one of the arms of the uncomfortable throne. "You will remain as Master of Whisperers and Lord Jon Connington who's currently at Dragonstone, will be my Hand." He paused for a moment as whispers broke in the crowd of nobles. To their knowledge, Lord Jon Connington was dead after drinking himself to death in Lys. That _was_ the tale spun and spread by Varys the Spider after all. "Lord Celtigar will take his place as my Master of Laws," Aegon continued, "and I have decided to create a new office: Master of War. My uncle, Prince Oberyn Martell, will be the first Master of War in Westeros." He nodded at Prince Oberyn who bowed in response. For their effort, the Dornish deserved a place in the small council. If Prince Doran had lived, he'd be a suitable Master of Laws. However, Prince Doran was dead and the Red Viper was not the most…appropriate choice for that office. The Dornish had no navy, so the office of Master of Ships would not suit Prince Oberyn at all. No, war strategy and tactics would befit Prince Oberyn better.

Varys the Spider tittered. "Your Grace, an excellent idea, but what exactly will the Master of War do during the times of peace?"

Aegon frowned at him. "There is always city defences to look at, Lord Varys. It is my plan to improve the city defences soon." He looked at Lady Olenna Tyrell. "I also wish to appoint Lady Tyrell as Mistress of Ships." It would be better to give it to her son Lord Mace Tyrell, but Lady Olenna was both a Tyrell and a Redwyne – a more capable planner and strategist too. If needed, Lord Redwyne could take a spot as advisor on the small council.

"A woman on the small council?" said the Grand Maester, his sleepy eyes wide open in shock. "Your Grace, that is _highly_ irregular-"

"It had been done before," Aegon cut in, fixing his eyes coldly on him. "You will lose your title and seat in the council, Pycelle. You had convinced my grandfather to open the gates for Tywin Lannister which led to my sister Rhaenys's death and that and the rape of my mother Elia Martell." He looked at his uncle Oberyn, who had an expression of rage and disgust written all over his face. "Throw him in the black cells, Uncle. The small council is in need of a more efficient grand maester." He met Lady Olenna's gaze and gave a slight nod.

It had been long agreed between the Targaryen restorers that the frail Pycelle was to be replaced by a maester from House Tyrell – one of many promises made to the Queen of Thorns by Varys, or so Lady Olenna had informed him.

"What of Master of Coin?" questioned Varys.

"I will bestow that office upon Lord Petyr Baelish." The murmurs grew louder in the mass of nobles. "Without Lord Baelish's help, we would still be outside the city gates, stuck in a long siege." He nodded at Petyr Baelish who smiled and gave him a bow in thanks. "The Targaryen banners wave again over the Reach and the Crownlands and Dorne – they will wave over the Stormlands and the Riverlands and then throughout the rest of the Seven Kingdoms!"

The lords and ladies echoed agreement, some genuine. Aegon rose, a smile on his face. No doubt his first court session was a success; the next one might not be so victorious or easy. Aegon descended the narrow steps and walked out, smiling and nodding at nobles with bowed and bobbed curtsies at him. Aegon slowed to a halt in front of the stairs that led to the gallery. He turned to Ser Rolly Duckfield, a knight of his Kingsguard. "I wish to speak with Lady Catelyn Baratheon."

Ser Rolly nodded. "Yes Your Grace." Aegon waited for the knight to usher Lady Catelyn down from the gallery and then proceeded to exit th Great Hall with Lady Catelyn reluctantly at his side.

"You wished to speak to me?" said Lady Catelyn icily.

 _Why else did I have Ser Rolly escort you from the gallery?_ "Yes my lady." Aegon decided to be courteous to the Usurper's widow. "Are you satisfied with your um, rooms, my lady?"

Lady Catelyn gave him a cynical look. "I know almost every chamber in here. I know the room you _kindly_ bestowed to me were Lady Margaery Tyrell's rooms. I am also aware that my chambers have been reserved for Lady Margaery Tyrell. If it is not too much to ask, may the rose-embroidered covers be moved out? I'm no Tyrell and I would rather plain covers to golden roses."

"As you wish my lady."

Uncomfortable silence took hold between them. "You are still young, my lady," Aegon said finally. He almost shivered when Lady Catelyn shot him another look, one of irritation and anger this time. "Many lords and knights have already asked me about you," Aegon went on determined to push ahead with what he'd decided to tell her. "They asked for your hand in marriage."

The Usurper's widow stopped in her tracks, her blue eyes as cold as ice. "I'm a new widow, _my lord_. My husband is not yet buried and you wish to barter me off to the highest bidder? That is unchivalrous and cruel of you. So who do you want to sell me to? A lowborn knight?" Her expression turned into disgust. "Perhaps it is your intention to give me as a prize to one of those foreign sellswords? Though you refuse to see me as the queen mother, I'm still a Tully of Riverrun. Surely it is clear to even a man like you that sellswords and lowborn knights are beneath my rank." She looked away from Aegon. "I would rather die a Tully than be forced to wed one of your lowborn cronies. My children will never accept a lowborn knight or a sellsword as their stepfather."

"I won't marry you to a lowborn knight," said Aegon in exasperation, "and I'll not force you to wed. By the Seven, Lady Catelyn, can't you see that I'm not some foreign invader? I am the king _by right_. I'm not punishing you for marrying a man who claimed my throne over a decade ago! I only want to bring the other regions of the Seven Kingdoms back into the Targaryen fold!"

"Who are the highest bidders for my hand?"

"My uncle Prince Oberyn Martell, Jon Connington, Lord of Griffin's Roost, Lord Petyr Baelish and Ardrian Celtigar, Lord of Claw Isle." Only Lord Baelish asked to marry Lady Catelyn, but Oberyn Martell and Lord Jon Connington were loyal and deserved a reward for their efforts.

" _Lord Baelish?_ "

Aegon said nothing. Though Lord Baelish was useful bribing the gold cloaks to betray Stannis Baratheon, there was something…something malicious about him. He didn't trust Petyr Baelish and to reward him with marriage to Lady Catelyn of House Tully, the widow of the usurper Robert Baratheon? No. It would be better for either Prince Oberyn or Lord Jon to control Lady Catelyn.

"Think about it," said Aegon, giving Lady Catelyn a polite nod. "You may have a few weeks to mourn for your late husband, but as long as I remain king, you'll be a married woman again soon, Lady Catelyn." Leaving Lady Catelyn under the eye of the Dornish and Tyrell men assigned to guard her, Aegon headed off to Lyarra Stark's chambers. For the last few days, Aegon had ordered Lady Lyarra Stark to be kept in her rooms. He had no desire to see the new Usurper's wife heavy with child whilst receiving no news of his own future heir from Dragonstone. It was a little petty for an excuse, but Aegon couldn't help it. He would not kill a pregnant woman even if she had a Baratheon growing that very second in her womb, but it would be foolish to allow the lady freedom in the Red Keep with men and women loyal to the stags lurking around.

Aegon nodded at the four soldiers guarding Lady Lyarra's door. "Has anyone – men or women – attempted to speak to Lady Lyarra?" The tallest of the soldiers, a Westerosi sellsword from the Golden Company, shook his head and grunted, "A maidservant came by an hour ago with food for the lady. A Dornish beauty. She is part of Prince Oberyn Martell's entourage I think, Your Grace. You did tell us that a servant will deliver the Lady Lyarra her meals. You said the last thing you want is for the lady to starve to death."

"So I did." Aegon waited for one of the guards to open the door. He entered the Lady Lyarra's chamber and found the Stark lady sitting and reading silently by an open window. Aegon cleared his throat. "Lady Lyarra."

Lady Lyarra looked up at him. "Your Grace," she said emotionlessly. She closed the book and stood up. "Is it time? Will it be a beheading for me or will I be burnt at the stake? That is the Targaryen way isn't it?"

Aegon was hurt that both Lady Catelyn and Lady Lyarra thought he would kill them. He was not his mad grandfather – he would never murder the innocent. He would execute pregnant women. It was one thing for Lady Catelyn to think him a mad king like King Aerys II as she was alive during his reign, but the Lady Lyarra too? She was not even born!

" _I will not kill you_ ," Aegon reiterated slowly, hoping his words sounded honest to Lady Lyarra. "I'm not a murderer."

"What about my future child then _Your Grace?_ After I give birth will I be forced to watch you burn him or her before you ship me off to a motherhouse? I will tell you now that I am of the old gods, not the Seven."

"I do not kill children, Lady Lyarra."

"You say that now, but in a few months? A year? Three years? Paranoia will be taking hold of you and you will see pretenders and usurpers everywhere. Even if my husband is dead by then, you will think I have a claim to the Iron Throne and it won't be long before I am summoned to my execution."

Aegon sighed. There was no point reassuring obstinate women that they were safe here. Besides, there was the Tyrell luncheon he was expected to attend in an hour – well, less than an hour now. Might as well head there now. He suspected a luncheon with the Tyrells was not solely about eating. He could not wait for Lord Jon Connington to arrive at King's Landing. There was Ser Rolly Duckfield, Harry Strickland and the Tattered Prince, but Aegon couldn't help but feel a little alone without the familiar presences of Lord Connington, Haldon and even the septa he learnt the mysteries of the Faith from. _Soon they will be here_ , Aegon told himself, as he bade Lady Lyarra good day. _Soon Lord Connington will be here._

* * *

"You will meet my oaf son soon enough," the Queen of Thorns was saying. "He thinks he's leading men to fight against the Dornish when in truth his men will be fighting _with_ the Dornish against the stag supporters."

"Is he aware of that?" Aegon inquired.

Lady Olenna snorted. "Pah, the oaf knows nothing. Only flattery. All the Tyrell women are clever; most of the Tyrell men have no brains." Sitting opposite her to Aegon's left, her grandson Willas coughed. "Except Willas and Garlan," the Queen of Thorns amended. "They inherited my brains. You'd met Loras – good with that sword of his, but no brains. Well, more brains than my Redwyne grandsons." She shook her head. "Those twins are fools."

"They are my brothers, Grandmother," ventured Lady Desmera Redwyne, who had sat silently near the other end of the table for most of the luncheon. "They're not as foolish as you think." Aegon looked at her. Lady Desmera was comely with orange hair and freckles. She was Lord Redwyne's sole daughter but she was also Lord Stannis Baratheon's new wife.

Lady Olenna sniffed. "You clearly do not have your mother's brains."

"How do you find King's Landing, Your Grace?" said Willas quickly.

Full of bloodshed and flattery. "Pleasant," said Aegon carefully, "I suppose. I've yet to walk the streets of King's Landing to inspect the businesses and shops and the markets and stalls."

"What of the Red Keep?"

"As impressive as I heard about it from Lord Connington and other Westerosi men and women who were with me in the Free Cities."

Willas Tyrell nodded, smiling at him. Aegon picked at the plate of food in front of him as he observed the other guests Lady Olenna had invited to luncheon. The majority of them were Tyrells or related to the Tyrells. Sitting on Aegon's left and right were Willas and Lady Olenna. Next to Willas was his brother Ser Garlan and Ser Garlan's wife Lady Leonette Fossoway. Beside Lady Leonette were about half a dozen other Tyrells that were cousins to Lord Mace Tyrell. Next to Lady Olenna were more distantly-related Tyrells, a few Hightowers, the ten year old Alysanne Bulwer, Lady of Blackcrown and Lady Desmera Redwyne. Aegon was astonished to see so many Tyrells present at King's Landing.

"Lady Margaery should be on her way here," Aegon found himself saying. "She will be accompanied by the finest knights and soldiers."

Lady Olenna nodded. "Good. The smallfolk already love her."

"They do?"

"Yes Your Grace," confirmed Ser Garlan. "Margaery would be part of the Lady Catelyn's party whenever she went on her rounds, distributing alms to the poor. The people will be delighted to have my sister as their queen. My sister Margaery always thinks of the smallfolk first. She confided in me when she was a little girl, that one of her dreams is to build a large building for smallfolk children to learn a trade, learn to read even, and always have a roof over their heads."

"That is quite a kind thought," said Aegon truthfully. "Who knows? Perhaps we might fulfil that dream in a year or two if all goes well."

The door opened and a Reach soldier ran in and said at once, "Your Grace, I've received word from the gold cloaks that Prince Or – I mean, the Baratheon traitor, is approaching the city accompanied by Lords Royce and Mallister."

Aegon rose. "Does the Usurper bring an army?"

"No Your Grace. There are other lords, but no soldiers. The standard bearer is holding a white banner."

Orys Baratheon must've received the message then. Excellent. Aegon was a bit keen to meet the Usurper Robert Baratheon's son. _He is your cousin_ , Aegon could not help but remind himself. _He's your enemy, but also your cousin_. From memory, he and Orys shared a close ancestor in King Aegon the Unlikely.

"I will meet them at once," decided Aegon. He looked at Lady Olenna. "My lady good-grandmother, I-"

"Go, go, Your Grace," Lady Olenna cut in, her tone as sharp as a knife. "Only an oaf would think a luncheon more important than a parley." She stroked her chin. "Stay here Willas. You too, Garlan. Let the Red Viper accompany our king."

Aegon nodded. Everyone knew the Dornish supported him; the Reach? Better let them remain hidden until Margaery was safe here. Margaery was probably on her way to King's Landing that very moment. _Hopefully Margaery's pregnant soon,_ Aegon thought as he left the Tyrell luncheon with Ser Rolly behind him _. It is much too early to know if Margaery is with child._ He strongly hoped she was. He needed an heir, a son of his own. Not only would it solidify the Targaryen succession, but it would bind the Tyrells to the Targaryen cause forever.

"Open the city gates," Aegon ordered.

"Is that wise, Your Grace?" questioned Lord Rykker, with a frown. "If the gates are opened, what if the Usurper and his men rush in?"

"Scared, are you, Lord Rykker?" said Prince Oberyn snidely, walking up beside Aegon. Lord Rykker flushed. "No need to fear," the Dornish prince smirked. "I can assure you that the nephew of Lord Stannis Baratheon and the good-son of Lord Eddard Stark will not even consider the idea of slaughtering the innocent whilst under the white banner of peace. Now if it was a Lannister at the gates…"

"Yes Prince Oberyn, but what if the Young Usurper's men urge him to attack? I am certain a young man barely out of boyhood-"

"I doubt it," Prince Oberyn interrupted. He turned to Aegon. "I've seen the two lords at the Young Usurper's sides: Lords Jason Mallister and Yohn Royce. One's a lord from the Riverlands and the other of the Vale. Both are as honourable as the honourable Lord Eddard Stark."

Aegon nodded. "Thank you Prince Oberyn."

"You know you can call me uncle," said Prince Oberyn as he and Aegon waited for the city gates to open. "You are my nephew after all."

Aegon was silent. Thinking of Prince Oberyn Martell as his uncle was easy; the idea of calling him uncle was…strange. For so long Aegon dwelled in Pentos, with Lord Connington as his surrogate father. He met one or two of his female Dornish cousins once a couple of years too, yet their relationship was never as familial as he had hoped.

The sound of approaching horses dragged Aegon away from his thoughts. The Young Usurper rode through the city gates, his expression one of calm fury. How calm fury could be achieved was a mystery to Aegon.

Orys Baratheon dismounted from his horse and walked up to Aegon. He was a head taller than Aegon. He also had the black hair and blue eyes that was quite a common trait in Baratheons, according to Lord Connington. Aegon stared at Orys Baratheon. The Usurper spoke first, his voice as cold as his mother, Lady Catelyn Tully's. "I expected to find my uncle Lord Stannis here," he said icily, scrutinising Aegon. "Instead, I was told your men slaughtered all the men here and claimed it – King's Landing – as your own. Quite bold, if I may say, but killing the men? Most of them had families of their own. It wasn't even a battle – a _sacking_. Only those a cowardly nature would sack a keep and kill every inhabitant in his path. As a sign of good faith, I want to see my uncle Lord Stannis."

"I am the rightful king, Baratheon," Aegon said, his voice steady. "You have no right to the Iron Throne. This is my keep. My city."

"If you are even a Targaryen, you have no claim now. Your grandfather was an insane ruler and your supposed father a thoughtless fool. This is the reign of the stags now, not the reign of the dragons."

"Let us not talk of the past. What is done, is done."

Orys Baratheon nodded. "If you surrender tomorrow, I'll grant your sellsword companies protection for them to leave Westeros and return to Essos. As for you, and all the Westerosi men who declared for you, I will be merciful. I give you my word that no one will be executed and you and your chief conspirators will serve in the Night's Watch till the end of your days."

Aegon could not help but chuckle. "I planned to offer you the same terms. Give up your claim and you can take the black. Your brother too. The rest of your men will be forgiven and can return safely to their lands."

"It seems neither of us want to see excess bloodshed." Orys mounted his horse and looked at Aegon. "Tomorrow morning, Usurper."

 _King's Landing is mine_ , Aegon wanted to say. What he did instead, was smile at Orys Baratheon, who looked slightly unnerved. Tomorrow morning will mark the end of any possibilities of peace and the start of war.

There was already a war between the stags and the dragons and it seemed so certain there would be another war, but one with a different outcome.

It would be a war the dragons win.

* * *

 **So war will begin in the south. There will be battle scenes as I plan to take the opportunity to practise writing them. Not 100% certain if they'll start in the next southron chapter or the one after. Any POVs you want to read from? :)**


	114. Jon IV

Gazing at his own reflection from his blade, Jon could hardly recognise himself. Once it would be a dark brown-eyed green boy staring back at him. Now it was a young man with a growing beard and matted hair looking back.

Jon pushed his shiny dagger back into the scabbard that hung from the leather belt around his waist. _The leather belt from a dead wildling_ , he remembered. He'd shared clothes with Robb (mostly old cloaks) in his youth, but he rarely wore old clothes handed down from other people, or dead people. _Now I wear the furs and boots of wildlings that are both dead and alive_. Jon recalled learning in his lessons that wildlings often fought amongst each others for food, furs, weapons or even a choice of lovers, but the fighting had ceased recently, in favour of a unified attack against the northern lords and men of the Night's Watch. However, it still seemed that a few wildlings were eager to spill wildling blood and took it out on some of their former wildling enemies.

 _I am almost a wildling now_ , Jon thought, pulling a furred hood over his tousled dark brown hair. He made a face. It sounded so wrong, yet it was the truth. Over the last few months, Jon had hunted and killed with Mance Rayder, King-Beyond-the-Wall, and broke bread with his late wife and good-sister. He'd even ate and chatted with other wildlings Mance viewed with high regard, jovial Tormund Giantsbane being one of them. _Once I attack the men of the Night's Watch, I'll be a wildling in truth_. Jon almost slapped himself in the face. He'd never fight against a man of the Night's Watch.

"You are quite the brooder, Lord Snow."

The flap of the tent opened and a beautiful young woman walked in. _A wildling woman_. Her blonde hair the colour of dark honey, cascaded down her back to her waist and a glimmer of mischief sparkled in her pale grey eyes. Today she looked like a winter warrior princess, dressed from head to toe in white: white woollen breeches tucked into high boots of bleached white leather, a white bearskin cloak pinned at the shoulder with an old carved weirwood face, white tunic with bone fastenings and a white leather belt where she attached the scabbard holding her favourite weapon, a long bone knife.

A small smile lingered on Jon's expression. "I told you I'm no lord, Val. I'm just Lord Stark's bastard." _Lord Stark's bastard nephew in truth._ "Jon Snow," he said, a tad bitter. "I was born Jon Snow and I will die Jon Snow." His smile disappeared a second later when the wildling Val burst out laughing.

"Such a southron way to think!" the slender wildling woman declared. "Do you think we all die with the same names we are born with? I once had a friend called Ygritte – we now call her Ygritte the Bloodthirsty, Ygritte the Bold even."

Jon scowled. He didn't want to be reminded of the red-headed wildling.

"If you hate your name, Lord Snow, change it."

"Don't call me Lord Snow."

"I thought you kneelers like being called lord. _Milord_ this, _milord_ that." Val the wildling smirked. Even Jon couldn't resist a chuckle. Before he was captured by a wildling in a battle, he knew this one southron lordling – the fifth son of a Noble House or something – who demanded to be addressed as "my lord," or he would pettily refuse to obey orders. He was a stubborn idiot and Jon was relieved when the southron lordling was stabbed to death by a wildling. At least his family could be told that he died defending the Wall from the enemy.

"Did you hope to capture a lord, Val?"

Val shrugged. "It would've been nice, wouldn't it? I'd be the first to have stolen a southron lord for my own." She eyed Jon. "You'll do though."

Jon bristled. "You didn't steal me. You almost killed me!"

"It's war, Lord Snow. What did you expect me to do? Throw myself at your feet and beg for mercy?" She scowled. "I am no southron flower. If it was up to me, I'd rather die than submit to southron _mercy_." Her fingers curled around Jon's wrist as she yanked him towards the flap of the tent. "We wasted enough time as it is. I doubt Mance would be happy waiting for us to show up."

"I doubt Mance Rayder chose you to be messenger maiden."

"One of us had to come and fetch you. Half the men believe Mance had lost his wits in trusting you. Alfyn Crowkiller said that trusting a kneeler is like breaking bread with an Other."

Jon arched an eyebrow as he allowed Val to lead him out of his tent and to the tent of the King-beyond-the-Wall. It was no surprise that Alfyn Crowkiller hadn't trusted him or liked him. Alfyn was an infamous wildling leader who was known for slewing the most members of the Night's Watch. He was definitely one of the bloodiest of the wildling raiders. It was also his loud, booming voice Jon recalled hearing first when he had broke through days of unconsciousness. "Send back his body!" Alfyn Crowkiller had shouted. "We'll send it back piece by piece for every man or woman killed! We'll start with sending back his cock!" To Jon's unease, an astonishingly great number of wildlings had agreed excitedly. Thankfully, it was Mance Rayder himself who saved him from a painful death.

As Jon and Val approached Mance's tent, made from white pelts of snow bears and topped with the antlers of a giant elk, Jon felt slightly disconcerted. If Mance was in a good mood, the sound of wildling songs would've already been heard. It was silence that greeted Jon at the flap of the great tent.

"I brought the kneeler," announced Val, once the tent flap closed behind them. More silence. Jon glanced around. He recognised all the wildlings present. All the wildlings in Mance Rayder's tent were clan chiefs. The one closest to Jon was the wildling clan chief Ygon Oldfather, an old, balding man with a bushy white beard. He reminded Jon a lot of Walder Frey (without the weaselly appearance and long, pink neck). Ygon Oldfather was a proud man, a little ill-tempered and unpleasant at times, and had _eighteen_ wives, ten more than Walder Frey. According to one or two other wildlings, the majority of Ygon's clan was composed of his own brood of sons and grandsons. If Ygon's unpleasantness had not reminded Jon of Walder Frey, his clan of kin had at once.

Sitting next to Ygon Oldfather was Harle the Handsome, who led a clan of free folk with his brother Harle the Huntsman. It was astonishing how the two Harles managed to successfully lead their wildling clan when they hated each other. It'd been said that they both had a son with the same woman. Maybe it was good that Harle the Huntsman was out fighting at present.

Adjacent to Harle the Handsome was Tormund Giantsbane who'd greeted Jon with a hearty chuckle, his eyes shifting from Jon to Val and back to Jon. During his short time with the wildlings, Jon considered Tormund to be one of the friendlier wildlings. Tormund wasn't tall, but had a broad chest, a massive belly and a snow white beard. On his massive arms, he wore golden bands engraved with runes of the First Men which had been passed down by his forefathers. Jon noticed that he was armoured with heavy ringmail that was similar to those worn by men of the Night's Watch. It was a common norm for wildlings to don the armour that had at one stage belonged to the black brothers, as was using the weapons they'd stolen from men of the Night's Watch. Some wildlings would even strip their enemies of clothing after they killed them and wear their blood-soaked clothes. The thought of it made Jon shudder.

"Don't just stand there!" Tormund's booming voice dragged Jon away from his thoughts. "Sit down, boy!"

Jon glanced at the King-Beyond-the-Wall who gave him a slow nod. Jon hastily sat down next to Tormund as Val made her way to sit opposite him. Jon declined the cup of mead Tormund offered and waited for someone to speak. As expected, it was Mance Rayder who spoke first.

"We are facing a long winter," Mance Rayder said solemnly, his shrewd brown eyes meeting every wildling's eyes. "We have faced many winters, as enemies, or as allies. We fought during winter, and we had shared meals during winter. None of those winters will be as harsh as this one."

" _No_."

Jon glanced at the glowering man sitting on Mance's right. The Weeper, he was called, named for his watery eyes. He was known by the black brothers and even the northern mountain clans for being a rather cruel and savage man who took a dark pleasure in blinding his victims (commonly rangers). The Weeper rarely sat with other wildlings and if he did, it was usually with those from his own clan. In strictest terms, he was Mance's ally. Not friend, but ally.

" _No_ ," the Weeper said again, fixing his watery eyes on Mance Rayder. "I know what you want, and I refuse to agree to it. You are tired, old man, and you want to sue for peace." He jerked his head at Jon. "That's why you were so adamant in Val keeping him alive rather than having the Crowkiller kill him."

Droplets of mead splashed onto Jon's arm as Tormund angrily slammed down his cup onto the table. " _Peace?_ " he growled. "When we are _winning?_ "

"There are men and women at the Wall!" shouted the Crowkiller. "We have all the men of the Night's Watch at our mercy! Give it all up for peace?" He spat. "I've not expected you to be a coward!" His eyes fell on Jon. "I'll kill you!"

"You do and it'll be _your_ entrails the crows feed on!"

Everyone turned and stared at Val.

"It's Mance's decision wanting peace," Val said calmly, "not Jon Snow's. I know you're itching to kill him for having a crow uncle, but you heard Mance. No one is to harm a single hair on Jon Snow." She looked at Mance. "The crows won't even consider negotiating for peace. They want us dead too."

"We don't negotiate with the crows," Mance answered. "We negotiate with the true Lord of Winterfell." His eyes met Jon's. "Jon Snow's father."

Alfyn Crowkiller spat on the ground again. "What use is that? The bloody Stark lords despise us as much as the crows do. There'll be none of us left if we journey to Winterfell and offer peace. Once we arrive at the gates, we'll all lose our heads, and our entrails will be fed to those bloody wolves."

Val produced a letter from her pocket. "I doubt it, Crowkiller. The kneelers are in no position to refuse peace." She threw the letter to Alfyn Crowkiller, who was one of the few wildlings who could read – not that many of them had bothered to learn in the first place. "Read it for yourself," Val said challengingly.

Questions flew in Jon's mind. How did Val get her hands on a raven from lords of the south? What did the letter say?

To Jon's surprise, Alfyn snorted as he returned the letter to Val. "Kneelers and their pointless wars." He shook his head. "All for a fucking throne!"

"When the true enemy lies north," murmured Mance thoughtfully.

Jon wasn't the only one who gave him a puzzled look.

"What are the terms?" grunted Ygon Oldfather, picking at his teeth with a thin bone. "Not a surrender I hope. If you surrender, I will kill ya myself."

"I will not surrender!" said Mance, with a hint of irritation. "Do you truly think I would surrender? All I want is peace for the winter!"

"And what will we do in winter? Eat, sleep and fuck?"

"We do what we do every other winter, Oldfather." Mance took a deep breath, before addressing everyone again. "I believe if we negotiate with Ned Stark, we'll secure peace that is favourable towards us. Ned Stark's a man of honour and he'll ensure his lords keep peace with us."

"The lords won't have it," Jon heard himself say. "My…father is indeed fair and honourable, but he may bend to pressure by the lords-"

"I knew it!" said the Crowkiller almost triumphantly. "The Starks are weak just like all the other southron kneelers!"

"Lord Stark is not weak!" Jon said sharply. "He is merely cautious. Without the support of his bannermen, House Stark is finished. There will be rebellion and no doubt a new ruling House in the North in a matter of years. I can assure you that no other Northern House will be kind to you. The Umbers will come here to fight until every one of you is dead – they will show no mercy. The mountain clans too will not ever consider a truce with you."

"Hold your tongue kneeler, or I'll happily cut it out," threatened the Weeper. If he was permitted to bring his scythe, he would've no doubt brandished it in front of Jon's face as a warning of sorts.

"Have you forgotten where you are, boy?" growled Tormund, wiping mead off his chin. "Have you forgotten who you are now? You are one of us! You lived with us, you broke bread with us, you even fucking fought with us! You're Val's man!"

Jon gaped at him. "I'm not Val's man!"

The grim-faced Ygon chortled. "We're not blind, kneeler. This camp is small – you must be a fool if you think we couldn't hear you fucking Val in your tent." He smirked. "Or does she fuck you, Snow?"

Jon felt his cheeks burn in embarrassment. It was true that over the last week, he started to fall for the wildling Val's charms and accepted her invitation to bed. Val had admitted she wanted him in her bed the day she captured him. When she first started flirting with him, Jon had refused her advances – he had no desire to father bastards with any woman. Now…it was a different story.

"You might as well be," chuckled Harle the Handsome. "Married yet, kneeler? I believe it was Val who had stolen you, not you who had stolen Val."

"I…" spluttered Jon. "I…"

"We fucked," said Val flatly, "almost every night. That is all."

"Our nights have nothing to do with peace!" said Jon in exasperation. "Why do you care if I make love with Val or…or any other woman?"

"You are Ned Stark's bastard," Mance pointed out, "and our guest."

 _More like Ned Stark's bastard nephew_ , Jon remembered with a bitter taste. It'd still been hard to think that he was raised by his uncle, not his father. _Now isn't a good time to mope on that_. "So?" said Jon testily.

"No!" exclaimed Val. "I refuse to live the rest of my life trapped in Winterfell as a prisoner! I'll be killed in my sleep!"

Jon frowned. What was Val talking about? He listened as the other clan leaders burst into another heated argument, this time with some snickering loudly, their eyes occasionally glancing at Jon. Jon inwardly sighed. No doubt it had been a jest of sorts at his expense. Val being trapped in Winterfell? It was Ygritte who'd been a prisoner there for a short time. Why in the old gods would Val even travel near Winterfell? As an emissary for the free folk? Jon hated to admit it, but noblemen – including northern lords – viewed envoys related to a great lord with much more respect than a diplomat who was a mere household knight or a castellan. Though wildlings were despised in the North, Mance was somewhat acknowledged as the King-Beyond-the-Wall and Val's sister Dalla, was Mance's wife. Dalla was dead a year ago from birthing a son who Jon had never seen.

Before Jon's mind could wander further, something nagged at him. What'd Val said? _I refuse to live the rest of my life trapped in Winterfell as a prisoner!_ Not even a wildling envoy would be kept a prisoner in Winterfell.

Suddenly, the truth dawned on Jon.

"No!" he said aloud. The arguments ceased and everyone looked at him for the second time today. "You can't be serious!" To his relief, Val looked as unhappy as he did. Jon stared at Mance Rayder who had remained calm this entire time. "You can't be serious," Jon said again.

Val nodded. "I'm a spearwife, not a broodmare," she stated coldly. "I rather die than be saddled by any southron kneeler." She jerked her head in Jon's direction. "That includes _him_ too. He is a good lover – for a kneeler."

Tormund snickered. "Did he kneel for you, Val?"

"Val did steal him," remarked Ygon, giving Jon a calculating look. "Technically, they are married already."

"And they have fucked," added Tormund with another lingering smirk.

"I'm not married to Val!" said Jon, shocked and irritated.

"You might as well be," said Mance simply with a faint smile. "Isn't that what a southroner would do for peace, Jon Snow? Marry one's enemy?"

"We're not kneelers!" said Val hotly, her cheeks flushed with anger and hurt. It seemed that though she was close in Mance Rayder's confidence, she wasn't told of his latest scheme.

"How long will this peace last for?" said Jon quietly. "Just the winter? No Stark lord will accept those terms. No lord will. How does Lord Stark know you will be keeping your word? You lot don't trust the northern lords and the northern lords do not trust you. Even if you can promise peace, I doubt all of you will keep your word." He directed his last words to the other wildling leaders. "Given the chance, I'm certain some of the northern lords will still want to kill you."

"I won't mind skinning one of 'em northern lords either," growled Alfyn darkly. He looked at Jon, almost assessing him. "Might start with you."

"You will be happy fighting for the rest of your life?" challenged Mance.

"I'm a warrior Mance Rayder, I've been fighting in the coldest of winters, those hot summers and the windiest of weathers since I was a scrawny boy! What were you doing when you were a lad? Singing and strumming that lute of yours?"

"I fought as much as you have, if not more, Crowkiller." Mance paused and Jon met his gaze again. "The Starks have wildling blood in their veins."

"A lie," Jon said, almost on impulse.

Mance smiled. "Haven't you heard the songs of Bael the Bard?"

"He's only a man of legend, a character in a song even. Besides, if he was a real man as you think, he's no better than a rapist and a raider."

"You are speaking to raiders, Jon Snow. Every one of us present's a raider. The tale of Bael the Bard…a true tale. You have Bael's blood in your veins like we do. I believe it is time the Starks reaffirm Bael's blood in their lineage."

"I'm not a Stark," Jon pointed out. "I'm a Snow, a bastard."

Mance shrugged. "Snow…Stark – it matters not to me. One day this long lasting feud between the free folk and the northmen will end and a Stark with the blood of the free folk will rise. That was what I was told once."

Alfyn snorted. "I did not think you'd fall for a foolish lie." Jon almost nodded in agreement. Seers were usually deceivers who told falsehoods for coin. _Where did Mance meet a seer?_ Jon wondered. _Soothsayers and seers are rare in the North – they never come north actually. I doubt they are a common sight in the south either_. He remained silent as the wildlings argued. _Lord Stark treated me like his son,_ Jon reflected. _He took me in even though he knew whose son I am. He even spread word that I am_ his _son. Thanks to him and Lady Stark, I squired for the Red Viper and I'm now a knight. Mance is right. Even though my name is Snow, I still have Stark blood. I must do my part for House Stark._

"For the sake of peace," Jon said suddenly, breaking the argument between the wildlings. He met Mance's steady gaze. "For the sake of peace," Jon said, keeping his expression impassive, "I'll agree to marry Val. On a few conditions," he added, as Mance opened his mouth.

"Honoured guests don't offer conditions," said Ygon Oldfather grouchily.

Mance ignored him. "Go ahead, Jon Snow. Name your terms." Jon was pleased to hear caution in the King Beyond-the-Wall's tone.

"The war between you and the northmen will end," Jon said promptly. "It will end for good. No false promises. The northmen will share their food and supplies with you – all of you are proud but you must admit that in harsh winters, you will have trouble finding food and to survive. To my knowledge, the black brothers at the Wall are in need of more men. There are plenty of men here who're skilled at defence and hunting."

"You want us to join the Night's Watch?" Tormund howled with laughter. "Jon Snow, you must be japing! I'd rather have my eyes pecked out by a fucking crow than have my cock cut off!"

"The black brothers don't cut off our…cocks," said Jon patiently. "If my father's given the order, they will work alongside you cooperatively. I give you my word." He paused. "Upon my honour," he said hastily, "and life."

"For the sake of peace," agreed Mance Rayder, standing up. "As a sign of…good will, you will return to Winterfell to negotiate with Lord Stark. Your wife Val-" he ignored Val's splutter of indignation "-and Tormund will accompany you. There'll be a gathering at the Wall between us of the free folk, the crows and the Starks. If you do not show up by the agreed time to finalise terms, or you show up without Val or Tormund, we will attack." He looked strained.

"What?" Jon said furiously. "You said you want peace!"

"Indeed, but this is still a war, Jon Snow."

"Don't think it's so easy negotiating peace," said Val coldly. "Many agreements have ended with mass death. Your first task is not convincing the Starks peace is in their best interest, oh no. It's convincing them you are truly Jon Snow. In their eyes, Jon Snow could be dead. Or worse." She leant forward. "Jon Snow could be a wildling now. One of us."

Jon felt his heart slowly stop. Was what Val said true?

"You will leave for Winterfell at dawn," said Mance crisply. "Be ready."

* * *

 **I'm sorry I couldn't upload the chapter any faster. I didn't have writer's block this time, it was more a lack of time. Uni assignments, work and assessments all tumbled on each other and I didn't have time to write. I thought it would be best to put writing on hold until all the assessments are finished - which they are now :D - and then start writing again.**

 **I decided to write a Jon POV because there were a lot of requests for a Jon POV and it was a good time for one as I plan to finish off the Northern arc very soon. I hope you enjoy reading the chapter :)**


	115. Orys III

The city gates closed behind Orys with a slow creak. Orys glanced back. At the very last second, he glimpsed the determined expression on the Targaryen man's face. He wished the Targaryen bore a smug grin instead.

It would've been much easier to hate Aegon Targaryen if he was pompous and arrogant. So much easier…

"What now Your Grace?" inquired Arthur Estermont.

"We wait," said Orys simply. He glanced at Lord Mallister who nodded. "There should be enough time for the Buckwell and Chyttering men to join us and all the Rivermen that are summoned will serve as the reserved army which I wager will eventually fight on the battlefield."

"How will we lure the mad dragon out?" asked Cley Cerwyn.

"We should attack the Crownlands," said Lord Horton Redfort, a Vale lord with a dangerous glimmer in his normally mild eyes. "The Crownlands lords are in the fold of the mad dragon and if we attack and take their lands, the false Targaryen would be obliged to send aid or come out and fight himself. Your Grace, the false Aegon knows the lords of the Crownlands are imperative to his success. Without them, the mummer's dragon will be trapped in King's Landing, unable to reach to his supporters in Dorne."

"I doubt Lady Ermesande Hayford yielded on her own accord," Orys remarked, crossing his arms against his chest as he frowned. "Would you attack the Hayford lands, Lord Redfort? Would you strip the lands away from a child?"

"It's a good plan Your Grace," said Lord Royce uncertainly. "I am not one eager in seizing lands for sheer pleasure, but the lords of the Crownlands are traitors – it is a war, Your Grace, and in war, the enemy's lands can be taken."

"I'd be no better than a bloodthirsty conqueror!"

"This is war, Your Grace," said Lord Mallister quietly. "Once it is over, you have the opportunity to return the lands to the Crownlands lords. I believe those lords will be very grateful and there will be no chance of rebellion. If there are indeed a few lords who wholeheartedly support the false Aegon, you can always give their lands to a more loyal house."

"It will take too long to ride to the Riverlands." Orys frowned in thought. "The loyalty of Hayford Castle is still…questionable." It was unfair to blame the head of House Hayford as Lady Ermesande was a child. The Hayford servants could work for the false dragon – stamping letters with the Hayford seal in the possession of a little girl would not be very difficult, especially if it was done by a castellan who was well-educated and probably from a noble family. He scratched his chin. "The only castle that is without a lord is Rosby Castle."

"There are plenty of claimants," Arthur pointed out.

"Now is not the best time to discuss the Rosby inheritance," said Orys tiredly. He looked around and spotted Ser Perwyn Frey talking to Ser Hendry Bracken a good distance away. Ser Perwyn was a favoured claimant but he was a Frey…

"Declare Ser Perwyn Lord of Rosby," suggested Edmund Blackwood as if he'd read Orys's thoughts. "He's loyal to you Your Grace."

"The Freys aren't the most trustworthy," Orys said, with an air of carefulness. "When the Tullys call their bannermen, the Freys are said to always be the last to respond – if they respond at all. Perhaps the future Freys of Rosby are of a better, more reliable stock, but I rather wait and find out. I do not wish to bestow Rosby Castle and the Rosby lands onto Ser Perwyn only to discover him of similar stock to his um, wary father."

Edmund nodded. "Fair enough. What are your intentions, Your Grace?"

"We will settle in Rosby Castle," Orys decided. "It is empty and lordless but the Rosbys had always been loyal in my father's reign. Surely the Rosby household is still loyal to me. We will stay there and wait for the false dragon's response. If the false dragon refuses to agree to my terms, we'll raze the Crownlands." He wasn't particularly keen on it, but it was better than a long, arduous siege outside King's Landing at the brink of winter.

"We can take hostages, Your Grace," recommended Arthur. "We do not have to burn every keep to the ground. We can take perhaps a son or daughter from each noble family in the Crownlands and send them to a loyal lord's keep, maybe Lord Tully's castle. I would offer Greenstone myself Your Grace, but it's rather far from here." He gave Orys a sheepish grin.

"Thank you for your offer Arthur," said Orys, smiling at his cousin. "I will think about sending potential hostages to Riverrun. I will need to ask Lord Tully if he is willing to watch the hostages as well. I rather not surprise him by sending a small number of hostages to Riverrun without his knowledge or consent. However, I'm quite certain that Lord Tully will wish to fight rather than linger in Riverrun at ah, the current stage." He looked at Lord Royce. "Let us ride for Rosby Castle."

Lord Royce nodded. "Rosby Castle it is." He turned to the other lords and men, who had not been paying much attention earlier and shouted, "We ride for Rosby Castle! If we leave now, we will reach the castle by nightfall!"

* * *

Orys and his party of lords and knights did manage to arrive at Rosby Castle a little before nightfall. Rosby Castle was almost as isolated as the great Harrenhal Castle, and still an impressive sight.

Rosby Castle was one of the biggest castles in the Crownlands. Surrounding it were fields of lush green with bushes and trees scattered over it. The castle had a large, round, squat tower in the middle – most likely the inner keep – and at least two other shorter, round towers. Upon each turret waved the banners of the now extinct House Rosby.

"It's quite a castle," remarked Arthur, who was at Orys's side. "You can claim it as your own, Your Grace. Give it to your second son."

"I never knew you for a greedy man, Cousin," said Orys dryly. "You know that I cannot claim this castle for my own. I have no Rosby blood." He waited for one of the Rosby retainers and household members to greet them. After what felt like a day, the maester came to welcome Orys and his party in. Orys almost groaned. _I'd forgotten who the maester of Rosby is…_

The maester was a Frey and he looked so much like Lord Walder Frey with his loose chin and cloudy eyes that for a moment, Orys believed him to be the prickly Lord of the Crossing.

"Melwys," said Ser Perwyn Frey warmly, smiling at the maester. "Fancy seeing you here at a time like this."

Maester Melwys gave him a nod that seemed more like one a friend or even an acquaintance would give rather than a brother to a brother. Then again, Maester Melwys looked a great deal older than Ser Perwyn.

"Your Grace," Maester Melwys said to Orys in a nasally voice with a polite bow. "Welcome to Rosby Castle. If you don't mind me being blunt Your Grace, you and your party were not expected here in Rosby. The household thought you'd be on your way to King's Landing. If we were alerted to your journey here, appropriate chambers and nourishment would've been readied for you." He spread his hands. "Alas, we heard no news."

Orys nodded and said dryly, "Surely a king's movement would be news spread around faster than a raven." Maester Melwys seemed to be as slippery as his sire! That was not good news.

"Not here in Rosby," answered the maester. He stepped aside and gestured for Orys to dismount his horse. "I'll have the master of horse take your horses to the stables. Rooms will be prepared for you at once Your Grace. There is no steward or castellan," he added. "The late Lord Rosby liked to order everything himself. A rather strenuous task for a man of his…health."

Orys frowned as an old man hobbled out and took the reins of his horse. Were all the servants in Rosby Castle as ancient as the late Lord Rosby? How could the late Lord Rosby not have appointed a steward or castellan? He recalled that Lord Rosby had married twice, but was a widower when he died.

"I will be using Rosby Castle as a base for the war," said Orys promptly, having decided there was no more time to waste. "You must have heard the man calling himself Aegon Targaryen had sacked King's Landing with the help of his Dornish allies. Many of the Crownlands lords have declared for him."

"Rosby had not," Maester Melwys revealed. "There's no lord; no surrender to a dragon pretender." He gave Orys a weaselly smile. "Rosby is loyal to you, my king. The castle is at your disposal."

"Thank you Maester."

The doors to the main keep were opened and Orys walked in warily. Maesters were loyal to the castle they serviced – they had no right to swear allegiance to a pretender. _Or could they?_ Orys truly hoped not. Orys waited for the other knights, lords and men to enter the main keep. Once everyone settled, he spoke clearly. "I have chosen to leave Hoster Blackwood and my cousin Ser Alyn Estermont back at King's Landing with the peace banner. They will wait for the false Targaryen's response and deliver the news to us. If the false dragon refuses to yield, it'll leave us no choice but to attack the Crownlands."

"When will we convene for war?" inquired Lord Royce. Orys paused. "Once the word of the false dragon's response arrives," he said at last. Earlier he'd told both Ser Alyn Estermont and Hoster Blackwood to immediately send word of the false dragon's response before riding to Stag Inn (a tavern located between Rosby and King's Landing) where they would meet a disguised Ser Herbert Bolling (a cousin of Orys's) who would take them to Rosby Castle.

"It will not be long," said Lord Redfort darkly. "I assure you Your Grace, it will not be long before there is bloodshed and open war…"

* * *

With Rosby Castle now a base for war, it brought more life into the castle. The servants hurriedly cleaned and prepared the unused rooms and the cooks had to think up new recipes that had flavour. Apparently in the last few years of his life, Lord Gyles Rosby could only consume the blandest of dishes.

If it was in any ordinary circumstances, Orys would think it was restoration of Rosby Castle for the arrival of the new Lord Rosby. With all the preparations who would believe it was for a war council?

As Lord Redfort had predicted earlier, it did not take very long for the pretend Targaryen to send a reply. By the time the moon started its ascent to the sky, Ser Alyn Estermont and Hoster Blackwood had arrived at Rosby's gates with old Ser Herbert Bolling, all caked in dirt, sweat and exhaustion.

"Is it to be war?" said Orys, once the three tired men caught their breaths.

Ser Alyn nodded. "Here is the false dragon's response, Your Grace." He handed Orys a scroll of parchment.

"The others will no doubt wish to hear it," said Orys, staring at the scroll as if it was an arrow coated in lethal poison. He looked up at the three men. "You will all want to rest, I believe-"

"No," Ser Alyn cut in. "Your Grace," he added sheepishly. "You must know what had happened. What the false dragon said."

"Very well," said Orys, not wasting anymore time. He turned to Ser Alyn's own brother Arthur, who lingered beside him. "Arthur, please tell the other lords that our war council will begin." Never mind that it was the brink of nightfall and at a time like this, a meeting may last all night. Orys looked back at Sers Alyn, Herbert and Hoster Blackwood. "Once you tell us everything that has happened, I want all three of you to rest," he instructed quietly. He held up his hand as old Ser Herbert opened his mouth to protest. "You have served me well," Orys assured them. "For the sake of your health – especially yours, Ser Herbert – I want you to rest. We'll not march off to battle without you." He smiled as Hoster Blackwood looked a tad bit more mollified. _He is eager to draw enemy blood_ , Orys thought, as he led them into the Great Hall. _I want this pretender dead and my mother and my people safe yet I am not excited to kill my first enemy. Am I a craven for disliking the spilling of blood for the sake of it or to prove I am a man?_ Uncle Stannis was a general in time of war yet he told him that leaving a field of dead bodies was a waste. Keeping an army of prisoners would be of better use.

Where was Uncle Stannis? Orys wished his grim-faced uncle was here. Maybe Ser Alyn or Hoster would bring news about him now.

"Lords and knights," Orys began once the last knight settled down. "I'm aware it is late and most unfit time for a council to convene, but Ser Alyn Estermont, Ser Herbert Bolling and Hoster Blackwood are here and they bring news of the most importance." He looked at the three men. His eyes met his Estermont cousin's. "It will be best for you to inform us what happened, Ser Alyn."

Ser Alyn nodded and cleared his throat. "Upon His Grace's orders, Hoster here, and I, remained back in King's Landing. As we were under the peace banners, we were invited to rest in the Red Keep. Naturally suspecting a trap, we declined and waited outside the Red Keep's walls. It wasn't long before the mummer's dragon came out himself – surrounded by a dozen or so sellswords and Dornishmen – to give his reply. He said that he did not want Westeros plunged into an endless war right before winter and he is um, open to further negotiations."

Lord Redfort snorted. "What more is there to negotiate?"

Lord Royce nodded, agreeing with Lord Redfort. "Your Grace," he said to Orys, "the false dragon made it quite clear that he has no more patience for negotiating when you spoke to him. Perhaps he only told Ser Alyn and Hoster that he is open for further negotiations to gain time."

"That sounds plausible." Orys paused. Time was a valuable commodity – it had seemed the false dragon was desperately needing it too. "What is he waiting for? More sellsword troops?" As the other lords started offering suggestions, each one louder than the other, Orys pondered. Further negotiations would probably go in circles and end miserably. He had no desire to give up the Iron Throne; the false dragon had no wish to give up his claim on it either. It would take weeks – maybe even months – for Lord Stark to gather soldiers and come south. It might even be longer if they faced resistance from the late Lord Walder Frey. Thanks to Father's sudden death and the Usurper's _timely_ arrival, Orys did not have the time to hold court and not every lord had sworn fealty to him yet. Though Lord Frey was one of Uncle Edmure's bannermen, Orys did not trust him one bit.

"YOUR GRACE!"

Orys snapped out of his thoughts as the doors of the Great Hall flung open and two brawny knights dragged in a dishevelled man.

" _WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?_ " Lord Yohn Royce's booming voice echoed in the Great Hall as he rose, his fingers curled around the hilt of his sword.

"My apologies my lord," spoke one of the knights. "Apologies Your Grace. We'd found this man lurking outside the gates. Thought he might be a spy."

Curiously, Orys bade the man to rise. He recognised him at once.

" _Gendry?_ "

The two knights looked confused. "You…you know this man, Your Grace?" one of the knights said hesitantly.

"He…he is my brother." Orys stared at Gendry. It wasn't unusual to see Gendry in plain clothes marred with soot and dirt, his black hair stuck to his forehead by beads of sweat. Gendry spent most of his free time in the forge, away from him or the rest of their family. Gendry would have been safe in the forge – no one would think to look for a Baratheon-blooded man there. What was he doing here?

"Brother?" Lord Mallister questioned. "This is not Prince Ormund-"

" _Half-_ brother, Lord Mallister," said Orys, gritting his teeth. He motioned again for Gendry to rise as Gendry had not yet moved from his kneeling position. "How did you get here?" Orys asked Gendry. He felt a pang of guilt. He had not thought much about Gendry or Edric at all.

What kind of man forgets his own brothers in a time of crisis?

"I…I followed Ser Alyn, Your Grace," mumbled Gendry, not meeting Orys's eye. "When the false dragon's men came to the Red Keep, I stayed in the forge. No one thought I was your half-brother, Your Grace. I snuck out when there was word of your arrival to negotiate." He hesitated. "When you are used to hiding away from lords and ladies, you really know how to hide from them. Anyway, you soon left. I noticed Ser Alyn remained." He faltered again. "I don't know the other man. After the false dragon sent them off, I followed Ser Alyn."

"How did you get out from the Red Keep?" asked Lord Royce.

"I told the guards I needed more scraps of metal milord – I mean _my_ lord."

Orys frowned. "The guards believed that?"

Gendry nodded. "Very strange, Your Grace. I thought they would follow me. I'd checked," he added hastily as Lord Royce frowned. "I checked and looked around every few minutes and no one was following me. I followed Ser Alyn to the inn, to the gates…that was when I was caught by the guards."

"You are welcome to stay here."

"I came here to warn you, Your Grace." The tone of faint confusion in Gendry's voice had vanished. "That was why I followed Ser Alyn."

"Why did you not begin with that?" exploded Lord Redfort.

"Lord Redfort," said Orys warningly on instinct. "I understand your anger, but you are still speaking to my brother."

"Apologies Your Grace," said Lord Redfort shortly. He did not sound sorry.

"I overheard a conversation when I was sneaking out of the forge Your Grace," said Gendry, his eyes darting hesitantly from Lord Redfort to Orys. "I recognised both the speakers. One was Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne and the other was uh, the Lady Tyrell. I do not remember fully what they were saying, but it sounded a bit odd. They were having a civil conversation."

"A civil conversation," repeated Orys. "Is that all?"

"No! Not at all Your Grace! It's just…Lady Tyrell sounded very calm. They were negotiating something. Something about the end of Reach and Dornish hostilities as they will be bonded by blood soon enough."

"Is that all?" said Lord Mallister with a tiny frown etched on his face. "Perhaps it would have been wiser-"

"They are allies!" said Gendry, strong with conviction. "The Dornish and Reach men are _allies!_ They both helped the false dragon capture King's Landing!"

Almost instantly, arguments broke out in the Great Hall.

Staring at the lords and knights bicker in a haze of vagueness, Orys pondered, inwardly cursing his late father. Why did Father ignore all the warnings? Why in the Seven did he marry Lyanna off to Willas Tyrell? Now the false Aegon had two – if not more – extremely valuable hostages. For the first time ever, Orys loathed his already dead father. Both the marriages he had brokered seemed to be more disastrous – Lyanna and Lyarra were both in the false dragon's clutches.

 _I am a fool_ , thought Orys, repressing a sigh. _I sent Lord Tyrell to take troops to fight against the Dornish. All I did was send the Tyrell men to join their allies. I'm a fool. An utter idiot._ Grinding his teeth, he took a deep breath and bellowed, "Quiet, please! QUIET!" Slowly, all the lords ceased arguing and looked at him.

"We have been betrayed by the Tyrells," said Orys darkly. "Despite Lord Mace Tyrell claiming loyalty to House Baratheon, House Tyrell had sided with the false dragon and House Martell. From this moment forth, the Dornishmen and men of the Reach are our enemies. Tomorrow, we will begin our Crownlands campaign." He felt his face harden. "At dawn, we will convene here again to discuss plans. At noon, we will march off to war."

"What if there isn't enough men?" questioned a Vale knight.

"Men will join us," said Orys, clinging onto that beam of hope. The outlines of a plan slowly formed in his mind. He smiled as the lords and knights began to nod, murmuring in agreement. "There will be no more dragons or false dragons in the Seven Kingdoms!" Orys declared on impulse. "My father ended House Targaryen; we will rid the Seven Kingdoms of all remaining traces of House Targaryen – and all the pretenders and false claimants – and we will _win_."

* * *

 **I didn't want the southron arc to jump straight into a battle scene as it would seem a little out of place. Next southron chapter will definitely include a battle scene though - haven't planned if it would be a little bit or the whole chapter yet.**


	116. Ashara IX

Tensions were high in Winterfell, most of which were either low in the depths of despair or high in the pit of anger.

Both the emotions of raging anger and unbearable grief were as clear as day in Robb and Lord Umber.

" _ANOTHER_ SOUTHRON WAR?" The Greatjon had bellowed, smashing his fists down on the high table. He glared at Ashara as if it was her fault. Ashara stared at him almost challengingly. She was not afraid of Greatjon Umber's hot temper. As she expected, Lord Umber looked away after shooting her a disdainful glare.

"I do not want a war, Lord Umber," said Ned patiently, "especially now. It's not up to me if I wanted a war. Whatever the case, I cannot abandon my daughter. At this very moment, the false Aegon could be imprisoning her or worse, killing her. You are a father, Lord Umber. Would you abandon your daughter to your enemy? Would you leave her without support?"

"I have lost a daughter!"

Ashara stilled. "What did you say, my lord?"

"I lost a daughter." Lord Umber's tone quietened. "Your son Robb told me that the fucking bastard Ramsay Snow hunted her down like a deer, raped, killed and flayed her many months ago. This whole time, I thought she was safe…" He shook his head. "She was dead for months."

"Our condolences," said Ashara sympathetically.

"That bastard…" The Greatjon's initial fury towards war had redirected to that late Bastard of Bolton Robb had killed in single combat. "If Robb had left him one of the prisoners, I would've demanded to kill that bastard myself!" He thumped a fist down on the table again.

"I will have Ramsay Snow's remains taken down," spoke Ned. "If it is any…" He hesitated. "…any consolation at all, you may do with them as you wish. I know it's not the same as a living prisoner, but it is the best I can do, Lord Umber."

Greatjon Umber nodded. "My thanks, Lord Stark."

"I understand that our forces are already quite thin due to the wildling war – it is very unfortunate. However, you know as well as I do that we northerners value family highly. If I have a Umber good-daughter in trouble, I will send help even if it is the coldest of winters." Ashara nodded in agreement, almost smiling as a tiny glimmer appeared in Greatjon Umber's eyes. It seemed even now, the thought of relating to a Stark was a tremendous honour. Despite Lord Umber's proud, fierce nature, he was like every other lord – ambitious.

"Perhaps I can withdraw a good host of men," Lord Umber conceded, stroking his brown beard streaked with grey. "Aye, I will have my brother Osric come and lead my troops in my stead. It's time I return to Last Hearth, Lord Stark. It will be best if I tell Caryse the news of Arrana's death myself."

"Of course Lord Umber," said Ned, pouring him a cup of ale. "I appreciate your efforts in helping Robb rule as acting Lord of Winterfell, my lord. My wife Ashara has suggested we unite Houses once there is peace in the North."

"Really?" Ashara remained expressionless as she met Greatjon's gaze. She was pleased to see that the Lord of Last Hearth lost the derisive look from earlier. The Greatjon gave her a deep nod. "I thank you, Lady Stark for viewing my advice and help to your son so highly."

Ashara allowed herself to smile graciously. "Not at all, my lord." It was kind of Ned to tell Lord Umber that it was her idea to hint at a future marriage between a Stark and an Umber when it was not. _He did it to help restore my reputation in the eyes of the Northmen._ If the Greatjon Umber approved of her once more, the rest of the northern lords, or the majority of them, would cease considering her as an outsider or a meddlesome southron woman. _Ned's kind_ , Ashara thought. Not a lot of husbands would attempt to re-establish the good names of their wives.

"I have considered having my younger children fostered," Ned was saying to a now interested Lord Umber. "To other noble houses of the North of course. If you agree, perhaps my daughter Gwenysse will serve as cupbearer to your lady wife. I believe she will also wish to continue her martial skills."

The Greatjon frowned. "Not the Lady Arya, Lord Stark?"

"In the last two days I noticed that Arya and Lady Lyanna Mormont are friends, and once the war is over, perhaps Arya will go to Bear Island for a year or two for fostering. The Mormont women are avid fighters."

"I see you plan to foster your daughters Lord Stark, but what of your sons?"

"Once Bran recovers, he will be sent to White Harbour."

"Arthur and Rickon will be fostered when they are a little older," Ashara spoke smoothly. "Karhold is a strong possibility, as is Deepwood Motte. Perhaps even to Last Hearth, Lord Umber. We all know how strong friendships are forged during periods of fostering." As she expected, Lord Umber's eyes flickered to Ned, whose friendship with the late King Robert was well-known throughout Westeros. Lord Umber nodded slowly.

"This war must end," said Ned, returning the conversation to the false Aegon's invasion. "Pride runs strong in the North, but where do you think pride will take us in the midst of a long winter when we run out of provisions? I am not blind or deaf, Lord Umber. I'm aware that many northern lords weren't pleased at Lyarra wedding a southron prince, but think of the benefits, Lord Umber. The North and the southron regions have never been particularly close, but now there is a good chance they can. Trade can be improved. More food sent north in exchange for an ample supply of pelts perhaps."

"I'll have men sent here immediately Lord Stark." Greatjon Umber rose. "If you want, I'll have a word with Lord Karstark. Convince him to send a host of men to Winterfell as well."

"Thank you Lord Umber. That is most helpful."

Ashara smiled at Lord Umber. "Indeed my lord. That will be very helpful."

"The Umber and Karstark troops should arrive soon." Ned didn't even look up from the detailed map on the table in front of him when he spoke. "If they come a day late, I will not be able to wait for them."

* * *

Ashara had been gazing out the window, deep in thought. Over the last couple of days, more soldiers had appeared at Winterfell's doorstep. The Cerwyn troops, sent by Lady Jonelle Cerwyn on behalf of her father, had already arrived, as had a host of men led by the heir of Torrhen's Square, Benfred Tallhart, and the meagre amount of men Lady Hornwood could spare. The last time there was such a large gathering of soldiers in Ashara's home was when her late brother summoned his men to march into battle in Robert's war. Now most of them rested in the guest chambers or were out hunting.

"Ashara?"

Snapping out of her memories, Ashara looked at Ned. "You told me before that it'll take quite some time for all the troops to be readied," she pointed out. "I can't stop worrying about our daughter, but there's nothing you can do but wait. If you go charging ahead with only a quarter of your men, chances are it will not end up in your favour." She glanced at the map. "I cannot believe you have to pay the toll to march through the Twins again. I can already imagine the delight on old Lord Frey's face when every soldier has to pay a heavy toll to cross. That will take too long. There must be another way."

"The crannogmen may help us," said Ned quietly. "They know how to venture south without paying a heavy toll. I'd send a raven to Howland Reed, but no one's even certain about the exact location of Greywater Watch. There's no maester at Greywater Watch either."

"Are you certain the crannogmen can help?"

"The crannogmen _will_ help," said a voice at the door. Ashara swiftly turned her head and saw Jojen standing calmly at the door. To her knowledge Lord Howland Reed's children were often in each other's company. They were rarely apart from each other, except when Meera was sparring and Jojen in the godswood.

"Jojen," said Ashara gently, "now is not a good time."

"I can take you to Greywater Watch," said Jojen solemnly. His deep green eyes met Ashara's for a second before they were fixed on Ned's. "I can guide you to my home," Jojen repeated. "Like you said Lord Stark, Greywater Watch does not stay in the same place, but I know where it is in the Neck. I've seen it in a green dream, a couple of nights in a row. If you permit me to take you and your troops there to speak to my father, we must leave in two days at the latest."

"So soon?" exclaimed Ashara. "That doesn't give the Karstark and Umber men enough time to travel here!"

Jojen didn't even look at her when he said, "Crannogmen can fight too."

Ashara felt her heart sink. _No…_

"Very well," Ned decided. "We will leave in two days." His eyebrows furrowed. "Are you certain you know the way, Jojen? Absolutely sure?"

Jojen nodded. "The green dreams were very thorough Lord Stark. I will be able to recognise every tree and marsh we pass."

Ashara scrutinised him. Jojen Reed always looked too serious for his age but in his eyes today…there was something different. He looked almost resigned – why? It was as if he knew a deep, dark secret that would lead him to an early death. It'd be highly unlikely of him dying young unless it was from a winter illness. Ned oft said that winter sicknesses were never kind to anyone. Ashara almost shook her head. It was never good to think of youths dying.

"I will leave the two of you to plot out the route of your journey," said Ashara, standing up. She looked at Ned. "Will I see you at supper?"

Ned nodded. "I'll see you at supper."

Leaving her husband alone with Jojen, Ashara left for the courtyard, seeking a dose of fresh air. She stepped outside the Great Keep and stood there, bathing in the cool wind. The moment of peace was shattered almost immediately by shouts and the sound of clashing steel. Curious, Ashara followed the noise and glimpsed a rather peculiar sight.

Instead of the usual spectacle of the boys sparring under the observant eye of Ser Rodrik Cassel, it was a group of girls, some fighting with swords and the rest watching as they tested out a number of different weapons lying around.

"You need more wrist movement!" Lyanna Mormont was yelling. She moved a step to the left and Ashara recognised the others present. Arya was the Mormont girl's opponent and watching them were Meera Reed and Gwenysse, the former a three pronged spear in hand and the latter twirling a long spear almost as tall as her with a steel spearhead. Ashara recognised the spear as a popular type used in Dorne. Both her late brothers had a vast collection of spears, half of which were a similar design to the one in Gwenysse's grasp. Most of them were locked away in Starfall's armoury now, unused and probably covered with layers upon layers of dust and cobwebs. _Where did Gwenysse get the spear?_ Ashara wondered. It was a strong chance that Gwenysse brought that spear back with her from Dorne as to her knowledge, there was no spear in that particular Dornish design residing in a rack in the Winterfell armoury.

"Mother," said Gwenysse – or Gwen, as she liked to be called – spotting Ashara at once. She stopped twirling her spear. "Do you need us for something?"

"We are practising," said Arya, looking at Ashara challengingly. "We need to be prepared in case Winterfell is attacked again."

 _Ladies should not spar daily_ , said the familiar irritating voice in Ashara's mind. She pushed the thought away. Ladies shouldn't spar or train at all if it was in any normal circumstances, but after what happened in Winterfell…it would be good for the girls to learn a little about swordplay – more defence techniques of course. It won't hurt for the girls to know how to use daggers and dirks for the purposes of defence. Before Ashara could open her mouth to comment on Arya's remark, a vast assortment of weapons on the ground caught her attention.

Ashara picked up a dirk and studied it closely. There was a spot of dried blood on the blade. She looked at Arya, Gwen, Lyanna Mormont and Meera. Only Gwen had changed her expression a little to one of guilt. Ashara frowned at them. "This is live steel – used recently too." The level of suspicion rose considerably. "Please tell me you didn't go on a secret hunt this morning without proper supervision."

"I often go hunting without supervision, Lady Stark," spoke Meera. She held up her three pronged spear. "Frog hunting."

"We didn't go hunting," Arya assured Ashara. "We found a whole pile of dirks, swords and other weapons in the armoury and brought them out here. Last night we found out that we – " she gestured to the other girls, " – learnt many different methods of fighting and we decided that today, we'll share them with each other. I learnt a bit of water dancing from Syrio, Gwen knows how to wield the spear in the Dornish way, Meera's been trained to hunt and kill crannogman style since a young age and Lyanna knows the northern way of fighting the best of us here."

"Very resourceful," Ashara admitted, handing the dirk to her. "If you desire to continue pursuing your martial skills, I must insist you do so under supervision – and you practise in the hours between breakfast and supper like the boys do. No practising at dawn or in the evening. Do you understand?" She stared at each girl straight in the eye until every one of them nodded.

"Does that mean we cannot spar today?" asked Gwen timidly. Ashara looked at her youngest daughter. It was hard to believe Gwen was only eight and as excited to embrace swordplay as Arya was.

"Ser Rodrik is still unable to move without bleeding out," Ashara said gently to her. "To my knowledge, your father hasn't decided on his substitute yet. Perhaps it'll be either Robb or Theon who will supervise you over the next couple of days if both of them and your father agrees.

"Today though, I wish for you to put away your swords, bows and arrows and I want you to accompany me to the nearby villages and help distribute supplies." She looked at all the girls. "Due to the burning of winter town, it'd been brought to Lord Stark's attention that the villages have almost doubled in population and are in need of more supplies," she explained. She couldn't help but feel a slight bit surprised when the girls nodded and immediately began picking up weapons and walking towards the armoury. Ashara had expected a half-hearted protest from Arya, as she was never enthusiastic about ending her sparring sessions earlier by even ten minutes. _Maybe she is growing up_ , thought Ashara, hiding a content and proud smile. _Maybe the shock of recent events forced her to grow up_.

"Who are they?" Lyanna Mormont was pointing at a group of individuals – two men and a woman – garbed in heavy furs approaching them. Both the men had beards.

Ashara frowned. The guards wouldn't allow any stranger entry into Winterfell without first notifying Ned, and to her knowledge, no guard had passed her in the direction of the Great Keep.

"Lady Stark!" one of the men called out. He sounded familiar…

" _Jon!_ " Arya screeched, delight shining on her face. She ran towards the huddle of people and hugged one of them tightly. A smile of relief began to slowly spread on Ashara's expression. Jon Snow had been missing for months – some lords that Ashara had spoken to already offered condolences, thinking he was dead. Ashara didn't think Jon was dead, only missing. It was a great relief that Jon was back in Winterfell and seemingly in good health.

As Jon and his party walked closer, Ashara caught sight of scars and bruises on Jon's face, some fresher than others. _What had Jon been up to?_ Ashara beamed at Jon. "Welcome home," she said warmly. Jon looked every inch a man grown now. Ned had said that war changed people – it had most certainly changed Jon by the looks of it. "Robb and your father will be delighted to see you," Ashara said with a kind smile. "Rickon and Arthur too. And Gwen," she added when Gwen grinned at Jon in recognition. Ashara looked at the other two individuals present. "My good man and woman, I must thank you-"

"Spare us your southron courtesies," interrupted the bearded man gruffly.

Ashara stared at him, shocked. That man with a snowy white beard reminded her strongly of Greatjon Umber, but the Greatjon did not speak to her that rudely. Surely one of Greatjon Umber's cousins would be more courteous!

"Lady Stark," spoke Jon. "This is Tormund Giantsbane." He pointed at the man who had interrupted Ashara. He stepped aside and a slender young woman with blonde hair and pale grey eyes moved into sight. "And this is my..." Jon hesitated. "My wife. My wife Val." His eyes darted away from Ashara, Arya and all the other people present. Ashara couldn't help but frown. There was nothing embarrassing about marrying a rescuer's daughter.

"Val," Jon repeated. "Val of the Free Folk."

Before Ashara could grasp the situation, Lyanna Mormont said in a disgusted tone, "You married a _wildling?_ "

"Lyanna!" Ashara said, astonished at the Mormont girl's attitude. "Please don't be rude to our…our guests."

"We are here to negotiate with Lord Stark," said Jon, a little stiffly. "We want a long peace between the Free Folk and the North. I'm here as a peacemaker. I was sent by Mance Rayder as a sign of goodwill from the Free Folk. Tormund and Val are here too, as further proof of the Free Folk willing to negotiate."

"Where were you?" Arya demanded, unaware of the frosty and uncomfortable silence that had formed. "I heard you disappeared at the Wall! Some people said that you are dead!" She paused. "Or tortured. Or crippled."

Ashara was relieved to see Jon's impassive expression break into a grin. "It is a long story Arya," said Jon, ruffling Arya's brown hair fondly. "One I'll tell you once negotiations are over." He looked at Ashara. "Is my father in the solar?"

"Negotiations must be quick," said Ashara, glancing at the two wildlings. "Lord Stark will not be here in two days' time."

"Hopefully negotiations will be fast," agreed the woman Val.

"I hope so too." Ashara was a little surprised to hear no hostility in her voice. It was well-known that wildlings were barbaric – some southroners believed lords and people of the North were barbarians too. "As you are here on the grounds of peace, please break bread with us. Have a meal with us, please."

"Thank you," replied Val, giving Ashara a rather strained smile. "We did have a long and strenuous journey. We were almost killed by southron men."

"We are of the North!" said Arya indignantly. "We are all northerners! There is no southroner here!"

"Everyone south of the Wall's a southroner," said Tormund Giantsbane gruffly, as Ashara led her daughters, wards, Jon and the wildlings to the Great Keep. "You can't call yourself a true child of the North until you live beyond the damned Wall. Feel the cold wind nip your nose, cook raw meat, steal your husbands and wives." He chuckled as Gwen recoiled with a mix of horror and disgust on her face.

Lyanna and Meera both responded that they cooked raw meat before as they entered the Great Keep and walked towards the solar, with Ashara in the lead and Jon and his wildling wife behind her. One of the Stark guards stepped forward, his eyes narrowing at Tormund, his fingers reaching for his sword. "That's a wildling," the guard growled, pointing at Tormund. "Him too milady." He pointed at Jon. "They should be in the dungeons."

"We are here to see my father Lord Stark," said Jon clearly. "If I was a wildling, I doubt the guards at the gates would have permitted us entry."

"They are here to discuss peace," said Ashara calmly. She looked at Arya who'd not left Jon's side since his return. "Find Theon or Robb. Tell one of them to keep an eye on you if you wish to spar. It seems our plans to visit the villages will wait." She looked at Jon and then the two wildlings. "Peace must come first."

The guard opened the solar door and Ashara stepped in. Ned glanced up at her, confused. "Ashara," he said, amazed. "I thought I would not see you until supper?" His eyes widened when he saw Jon. " _Jon?_ " His eyes slid over to Val and Tormund. "What is this?" Relief left Ned's voice. "Jon…that man and woman are of the Free Folk. They are wildlings."

"They are here to negotiate peace," said Ashara with a tight smile. "As a sign of good faith, Jon was sent back here to us as the envoy. That woman – Val – is also our good-daughter. Jon had taken her for wife."

"We have much to discuss," said Jon, sounding apologetic.

"Yes…" Ned gestured for him, Ashara and the two wildlings to sit down. "Yes," he said again as Ashara gave him a cheering smile. "We have much to discuss and we only have a few days. Shall we begin?"

* * *

 **I am aware that it'll take a bit of time for Jon, Val and Tormund to travel to Winterfell and there would be a number of problems they would face. Let's just assume the weather was fair and they were aided by good fortune hence their speedy journey :) What do you guys want the next chapter to be? Another northern POV or a southron one?**


	117. Val I

Four walls.

One small door.

Stale air.

The moment Val stepped into the Stark lord's small room – what did Jon Snow call it? A solar? – she felt like a prisoner. Any minute now, the guards could come rushing in and tackle her down on the Stark lord's orders. Of course she'd fight as viciously as she could to save her own skin, but there was something…unnerving about fighting in a tightly confined space.

"Shall we begin?" the Stark lord had inquired, waving his hand to indicate Val, Tormund, Jon and the Stark lord's wife to sit at the empty chairs opposite him. It was the Stark lady who sat first, followed by Jon Snow. Val exchanged looks with Tormund. Was this a trap?

"Perhaps bread and salt?" grunted Tormund cautiously.

Stark smiled – jestingly? "Of course. While we wait for bread and salt, I would be grateful to know the name of my guests."

"The Giantsbane," said Tormund instantly.

"He's Tormund," spoke Val before Stark could question him further. "And I am Val. Mance Rayder's my late sister's husband."

"Did you rescue Jon?" questioned Stark with a guarded tone. "If you did, I must thank you for doing so. You had-"

"I stole him," said Val bluntly. "When we fought at the Wall, I stabbed him and then took him beyond the Wall as my prisoner. I thought it would be nice to steal a southron lord for my own. You never know when they become useful. A captive can be traded or used for hard labour. Even if he is dead, he still can be useful." A smirk appeared on her face as Stark looked slightly uneasy.

"When did you marry my son?"

Val refrained herself from scowling. Oh alright, Jon was an adequate lover, but to be called his wife? _I'd rather run stark naked in the snow than call myself Lord Snow's lady wife_ , she thought savagely as she hurriedly hunted for an appropriate answer in her thoughts.

"Val stole the boy," said Tormund sharply, crossing his arms. "Jon Snow's Val's man. Does it really matter when they _married?_ " He rolled his eyes. "Val stole him in the heat of battle and they fucked a number of times. Married in the eyes of the gods. Isn't that good enough for you, Stark?" Jon Snow shot him a look. Val's lips pursed as Tormund sighed. " _Lord_ Stark?"

To Val's surprise, Stark did not look at all offended. It unnerved her. Better an angry lord than a sly one.

"You said you are here to negotiate," said Stark's wife, who looked nothing like any woman of the North Val had seen or met. She had soft hands – probably had never bothered to learn to fight, pitch tents or help set up camps – and jewellery decorated her thin fingers and long dark hair. It irritated Val that the Stark's wife donned rings on her fingers – rings like all pieces of jewellery were prizes won in battles and wars. Enemies were killed and stripped down, and everything that'd once belonged to them would belong to those who killed them. Val doubted that Stark's wife killed anyone – she did not deserve the jewellery.

"Milord? Milady?" A young man had appeared, carrying a large plate. He must be one of the servants in this massive prison of a castle.

Stark nodded for him set the plate down on his table. "Thank you," he said and the young man dipped his head and left. On the plate were thick slices of bread, a small bowl containing a tiny mountain of salt beside it. Stark gestured for Val and Tormund to eat. "I suppose you will be more at ease once guest right is invoked," Stark said as Val took a piece of bread and sprinkled salt over it.

Val bit into the bread. It was soft, the softest piece of bread she had ever sunk her teeth into. _This is for the weak and elderly_ , she thought as she chewed _. I doubt the elderly will eat this._ Since a young age, she – and everyone she knew – feasted on hard bread. Some days the bread would be stale yet food was so scarce in the midst of winter that stale bread was considered a luxury.

"I doubt all the Free Folk wish for peace," remarked Stark mildly once the big plate was empty. "Whose idea was it?"

"Mance Rayder's," said Jon promptly. "It was all his idea to send me here as an envoy along with" – he hesitated – "my wife. And Tormund. You are right Father. Not all the Free Folk desire peace with us. Some want to continue this war, but it is Mance Rayder's wish, and I am confident he will convince the other chiefs that peace is in both our interests. No one wants a war during winter." His father and mother both nodded cautiously in agreement. "Mance also suggested for me and Val to wed," Jon said, glancing at Val properly for the first time since they entered Stark's confining chamber. "The 'southron way' of guaranteeing peace, according to him. We will negotiate and decide on the terms of peace and present them on a planned day at the Wall to the free folk and brothers of the Night's Watch where we will finalise them."

"You must be aware that the black brothers are stubborn. They won't want to settle for peace terms set by their sworn enemies."

"They have no choice," said Val bluntly. Both Jon and his solemn father turned and stared at her, the latter with what seemed like mild interest. "The crows are losing," Val went on, ignoring the frustrated look Jon shot her. "We can fight them to utter submission even in the coldest of winters – perhaps by the end of winter, we will have more numbers to conquer northern land."

Stark darkened. "That is quite a boast."

Val smirked. "Not a boast. A _promise_."

"This is why we need peace!" Jon said quickly. "Father, you are the only man in Westeros the northern lords, the black brothers and the free folk will listen to. If you negotiate, the peace will last hopefully forever."

"What are Mance Rayder's terms?" asked Stark, learning forward.

"Wait," said the Stark woman before Jon could speak. "I wish to know why Jon is so willing to be emissary for the free folk. I am happy he has returned to us, but to my knowledge, hostages are not usually sent as envoys to their captors' enemy. I would've questioned if you were in truth Jon Snow, if not for Arya."

Stark looked hesitant. "I know my son, Ashara," Val heard him mutter. "What if you are right though, and they have more hostages-"

"I am here as a sign of good faith," interrupted Jon Snow, exasperated. "Do you honestly think I am willing to work for Mance Rayder and turn against you?"

Tormund snorted. "Some of us thought you were his pet, boy. You hunted with us and killed with us. Almost one of us!"

There was sudden silence, Stark and his wife staring at Jon, shock written over their faces. Looking at each of them in turn, Val spoke. "Mance Rayder's terms – a truce between the free folk, the crows and the northmen. Fur and other supplies such as food and wood, will be traded between us and there will be no fighting. If word comes around that a man or woman of the free folk is dead at the hands of a crow or a northman, we'll demand justice. If we discover one of our own killing a crow or a northman, he or she will be punished. Fair, don't you think?"

"No pact between the free folk and northmen have lasted longer than a week," said Stark brusquely. "How can I – and the northern lords – believe you?"

"You southroners like creating permanent union through marriages," said Val with a scowl. "Why do you think I had to take your son as a husband?" She could not resist a shudder. She still could not believe Mance forced her to embark on an awful career as a southron bastard's wife. Never in her life had Val considered to be a wife – _anyone's_ wife. _I thought I would die with a spear or dagger in my hand, not giving birth to a squalling babe_. Val knew she wasn't pregnant at the moment, but what if her _husband_ decided he needed an heir?

"There are numerous reasons," remarked the Stark's woman. "You could be ah, with child, and Jon did the honourable thing of wedding you."

Val coughed as Tormund roared with laughter.

"One marriage will not solidify peace!" said Stark loudly. "Fighting in the war's already depleted supplies and no lord will be willing to share their supplies with their enemies! They are already reluctant to give furs and supplies to the men of the Night's Watch as it is!"

"We are all human," Val pointed out. "We all need fur to stay warm and food to remain alive. We are as civilised as you are."

"You are aware that you are called wildlings throughout the Seven Kingdoms? Not an insult," Stark added as Tormund Giantsbane slowly rose, an enraged look on his face. "Only a fact," Stark said a second later. "It is true that we're all human, but due to the frequent wars between you and my people, I will not be surprised if my lords want you dead from starvation or winter illnesses."

Val sighed and gritted her teeth. By the gods! Stark was so stubborn! She gave a look to Giantsbane and he nodded. The time for reasoning was over.

"You're a man of bluntness," said Val casually. She ignored the warning glower her _husband_ shot at her. "I hope you won't be offended if I tell you that currently, we, the free folk, are winning the war against the crows, even when they have the aid of your men. Do you want to be known as the lord who lost the North? Mance Rayder mentioned before we left that if we do not show up on the agreed time to finalise terms, all chances of peace are at an end and we'll attack. If you kneelers like to kneel so much, it might satisfy you if you kneel to us. You might not have a choice in that matter. We might even break your legs if we feel particularly cruel. Oh wait, you think us vicious, heartless savages anyway." She suppressed a smirk as Stark bit his lip.

"I will consider your terms," Stark said finally. "We will negotiate again later. I must think – alone." The last words were directed at his wife and Jon. "Until then, please enjoy the comforts of Winterfell," Stark said to Tormund and Val. "If there is something you need at all, you just need to ask."

* * *

"Is it true?"

Before Val could take in the sights of Winterfell, she was pounced upon by the small brown-haired girl who had greeted Jon first upon arrival. To Val's chagrin, she was surrounded by two more girls around the same age as the first small girl. Val looked down at them. "Is what true? Who are you?" she asked after a second of thought. Better to know one's interrogators.

"Arya," said the first girl impatiently. "That's my sister Gwen and Lyanna," she went on, pointing to the others. "Is it true that Jon stole you? Maester Luwin said that beyond the Wall, you steal your wives."

"Husbands too," said Val, biting back annoyance. Why did everyone think that it was Jon who stole her? Brooding Jon Snow probably couldn't even steal a sack of potatoes from a mountain clan if his life depended on it. _I've never been stolen in my life_. Not from a lack of effort in the men's parts. There had always been one or two men lusting after her from time to time, some bold enough to try and steal her. Like all women beyond the Wall, she fought them, sometimes with weapons and sometimes with her bare hands. Every one of her old suitors had slunk away, their heads down with embarrassment after Val successfully defended herself. "I stole him," Val said irritably. "He's more my man than I his woman."

"Did you fall in love with him?" asked the girl called Gwen.

Val was quite tempted to roll her eyes. "Falling in love had naught to do with it. Surely you lot have something better to do at this time?"

"Will you be living here with us?" Arya pressed. "You know, as you're married to my brother Jon now." She looked happier for some odd reason while the silent and scowling girl Lyanna remained well, silent. "You can teach us girls to fight if you do live here," Arya said brightly. "We won't have to beg Robb or Theon or the new master-at-arms once he is appointed."

The thought of living at Winterfell like a demure southron flower sickened Val. To sew and knit all day…how confining. "I won't be living here," said Val flatly. "I have a home and it's most certainly not Winterfell."

Arya flinched and looked hurt. "Aren't you going to live with Jon?"

"Who says Jon will be living here?"

"Who says Jon isn't? This is his home."

Val huffed. "Excuse me _my lady_ , but Lord Snow's still a hostage. He's only here with me and Giantsbane to negotiate with your father. He fought against us and I chose to wound and capture him rather than kill him. Just because he is my man now means nothing. My mother's mother had slain an inadequate lover that she had stolen the summer before."

"Hopefully that will not happen to me." Jon Snow appeared at her side, smiling fondly at the girls. Val cursed herself for being so distracted. She should be more aware of her surroundings – especially as she was in unfamiliar territory.

" _Lord_ Snow," said Val, glancing at him. "Checking up on your sisters are you? It is quite brotherly of you. I can assure you that they're all alive and uninjured. I'd eaten bread and salt. I don't like killing children either."

"I never thought you would kill my sisters," said Jon steadily. "If you had killed them, I would kill you too."

"As I would you, Snow. By the end of the day, we'd both end up dead."

"Can we see you fight?" inquired Gwen. "With swords?"

Val laughed. "It'd be fun but I cannot wield a weapon – no matter how useless – within the grounds of Winterfell! Politics and everything. Who knows? Perhaps when the long winter is over, we will fight against enemies together."

"Or maybe not," said Jon abruptly. "Val, where's Tormund? My father wants us in his solar. He must've finished deliberating on the terms."

Val shrugged. "How am I to know where the Giantsbane is? I don't even know my way around this massive labyrinth of stone and mortar."

"We'll find him on the way then." He gave the three other girls another smile – Arya smiled back. Jon's smile faded when he gestured for Val to follow him back to the stifling room he called a solar. "You did not have to tell my father that your people are winning," he muttered to her. "You told him _twice_. I was sent here for the purpose of ensuring _peaceful_ negotiations – do you honestly think menacing him with the reminder of the black brothers losing will help? You were fortunate that it was my father you spoke to. If it was Greatjon Umber or Lord Karstark and it was before you had bread and salt, you would've lost your head. You may have to think of sweetening the terms if you want my father to agree to them."

"The terms are sweet enough," said Val stiffly. "What more do you want Snow? A host of unhappy marriages? That's your southron way of sealing pacts isn't it? I believe one's word of honour is worthless now."

Jon darkened. "Honour is thought differently by different people."

"Val!" Tormund strode up to Val and Jon, a big grin on his face. "Did you see all the food in the Great Hall? It can last us for months! Oh, and the girls!" He gave an approving whistle. "Some are like they are made from ice!" He chuckled. "I'd love to melt them with a good-"

"Lord Stark will not have it," interrupted Jon.

"Surely your lord wants more little northmen? Little ones that will grow as tall as trees and strong as oxen?"

"The girls," said Val, changing the subject. "They are your sisters? I thought the ladies of the south are not allowed to be interested in martial pursuits."

Jon's darkened expression was replaced by a soft smile. "Only Arya and Gwen are my sisters. And Lyarra of course, but she is in the south. Arya always wanted to learn to fight and I think Gwenysse was taught a trick or two with the spear in her time at Dorne."

"They'd be excellent spearwives."

Jon did not reply. As the door to the Stark lord's small, oppressive lair came in view, Val swallowed an upcoming groan. Why couldn't the discussions be held in a more open area like that courtyard? Jon had also mentioned Winterfell having a massive godswood – wouldn't that be a better place for negotiations?

"This is for your own protection," said Jon so softly that Val almost didn't hear him. "Did you see all the banners? They belong to the noble Houses of the North – I suspect many of their troops are here as we speak. What do you think will occur when they discover you here? Yes, I know you can fight, but against over a dozen trained soldiers by yourself? You'll be dead in minutes. Besides, it is safer to have our negotiations in my father's solar."

"Are you a mind reader too, Lord Snow?" said Val grouchily.

"Those banners do look rather nice," said Tormund thoughtfully, to Val's utter astonishment. "Good to know who your men are."

Val wrinkled her nose. "Too southron." She said no more when Jon pushed the solar door open and Val found herself forced in the little chamber for the second time that very day. As Jon and Tormund sat down on the uncomfortable chairs in the room, Val remained standing. She still did not trust Stark at all.

"I have considered the conditions," said Stark, without wasting any time with pointless southron pleasantries. "An hour earlier, Jon told me his terms of his uh, marriage to you, Val. Apparently he requested a number of you to join the Night's Watch. That is a fair stipulation."

"We won't take vows," warned Tormund, "and we won't kneel."

Stark nodded impatiently. "As you wish. Mance Rayder's terms are quite fair – however, I add a few of mine own."

"Yes?" said Val, wary. Was this the moment he requested her to remain in the castle for the rest of her life as a hostage?

"As you said, the free folk are human like the rest of us. Amongst your people I am certain are children and the elderly. Living beyond the Wall isn't particularly safe for them. Yes, I am aware you are proud people and have lived that way for a number of centuries, but this is just a few steps towards maintaining peace. For a few years of late, I have considered having new lords settled in the Gift. Now I am thinking of offering the lands of the Gift to you and your people to settle in.

"There are conditions for that of course. If you and Lord Commander Mallister both agree, I will name Jon Lord of Queenscrown and Protector of the Gift. You'll have no need to swear allegiance to him. I only want Jon there to ensure peace in the Gift and the crops, food and material shared evenly between the new settlers and the men of the Night's Watch."

"I rather be trampled to death by a drunk bear than give up my grain to a lazy, useless son of a bitch lord!" snarled Tormund. "Even if it is this _boy!_ " He jabbed a finger at Jon's face. Val nodded in agreement. It was already bad enough that men of the south thought of her as 'the wildling princess' just because her sister's man was Mance. Now Lady of Queenscrown? No. Too southron. Much too southron. It would be better to let Jon Snow be lord and return home without him – if not for that damned peace pact. Val could already imagine the other chieftains' reactions. Lady Val this, Lady Val that…

Ugh.

"I thought Snows can't be lords," Val heard herself say tartly. She was pleased to see both Stark and Jon wince.

"That part is easy to deal with," said Stark, recovering first. "I know you aren't fully pleased with my terms, but I must insist upon it. It is the first step to secure a long peace and unity between the people of the North. If you wish to remain on the land beyond the Wall, that is your choice. I only want to offer the lands of the Gift to you as a shelter for the winter and a place you can grow food and material without the need to raid."

"You want us to change our ways," said Val flatly, unimpressed. "You claim it's for peace, but what after you die? What if the next lord declares all womenfolk of the North unable to learn to fight? What if he demands us to swear allegiance and kneel or face death? There's no guarantee of peace."

Tormund grunted in agreement. "I rather have my-"

"There will be no peace then!" snapped Jon, glaring at him and Val. "We are all proud but there must be some giving and taking in negotiations! Do you think the northern lords will be happy either?"

"Do you expect us to feel sorry for them?" Val retorted, crossing her arms. "I'd be delighted to see them-"

"I have said my terms," Stark cut in, standing up.

"You will accompany us to the Wall?" questioned Val.

Stark hesitated. Oh yes, his decisions were wavering already. Either to go fight in the south or bring some sort of peace in the North.

"Yes," Stark said at last. "Yes, I suppose I will."

Val nodded. She grabbed the cup on Stark's table and raised it mockingly. "To a more prosperous and peaceful North!"

Tormund, Jon and the Stark lord remained grim.

* * *

 **Had a busy week working at a casual job I picked up last week - now that it's over, more writing time :) General interest question for Daenerys and Jon shippers (or anyone actually): why? Why do you ship them? It's just I had an ASOIAF discussion with a friend yesterday and she is a hardcore Daenerys/Jon shipper and one of her reasons for shipping them is because they look good together...**

 **IF Jon is a Targaryen (I don't believe it unless it is confirmed - if confirmed - in the books), then his intimate relationship with Daenerys is incestuous and I don't think that will bode well in 'current Westeros'.**

 **IF Jon is a bastard, what is the point of the relationship? It most likely won't end with marriage as there is no political gain for Daenerys in marrying a bastard.**

 **Why a sudden interest in my 2 least favourite characters? Yesterday's ASOIAF discussion was lively and engaging and my mind is still swimming with ASOIAF haha.**


	118. Oberyn II

When young Monterys Velaryon informed Oberyn that he was requested to be present at supper with the king in the Great Hall, Oberyn expected the king to be surrounded by a cluster of Tyrells. To his mild surprise, the Great Hall was empty of courtiers with the exception of the king himself and Ser Rolly Duckfield, and it was at a long table the king was seated at, not the dais.

"Prince Oberyn," said the king, smiling when Oberyn entered the Great Hall. "I am delighted you can join me for supper. Please, sit."

"Your Grace," greeted Oberyn, sitting down opposite the king. "I am honoured to be invited to supper. Are we waiting for your other guests?"

The king shook his head. "It'll be only us, Prince Oberyn. Since my arrival here, we haven't yet had the chance to dine alone. There are all those council meetings, and the Tyrells have been insisting I sup with them almost every day. I'm pleased that they have accepted me so easily, but I do wish to know you and my Dornish relations a little better. You are my family after all."

Oberyn smiled. "We of House Martell will never abandon our family."

"I'm thankful you are here, Prince Oberyn. Spiced eggs? I hear they are quite a popular choice in Dorne."

"It is." Oberyn helped himself to a serving of spiced eggs and stuffed greens on flatbread. "When I was a child, my companions and I would challenge each other to eat spicy food. We'd start with your tolerant level of spice and then it would be a little spicier and so on. First to yield would be given a penalty. We'd all be quite red-faced afterwards." He chuckled at the fond memory. When he was a boy, he'd once challenged Doran to a spice contest. Doran had declined. Back then, Oberyn had thought Doran was a coward for refusing the challenge.

"Did my mother participate in these spice contests?"

Oberyn's smile grew reflective. "I would love to say she did, Your Grace, but it would be a lie. Your mother had fragile health and it was feared that if she joined us in our…raucous activities, she might die. However, I do recall Elia joining us in one spice contest with our cousins Mors and Manfrey and Ashara Dayne. We had tried very spicy fire peppers for the first time that day and all ended up splashing about in the pools in the Water Gardens to cool off from all that spicy heat! It was a good day, that one." He reached for his cup of Dornish strongwine and sipped it. He smacked his lips. The Dornish strongwine was good – sweet too. It was sweet as vengeance. Not that he had tasted the full sweetness of vengeance just yet. The sight of his nephew Aegon Targaryen on the Iron Throne was only the start.

"Did my father love my mother?"

"Yes." Oberyn did not hesitate in his answer. "They were happy…at first. They respected each other and Elia did her duty. Almost died, but she still did it." Rage boiled within him. Childbirth nearly killed Elia and what did Rhaegar do? It most certainly was not being satisfied with two children and caring for his wife.

"Lord Connington saw no wrong in my father," said the king quietly, as if he'd read Oberyn's angry thoughts. "He thought him a godsend angel."

"A lie!" Oberyn couldn't help spitting out.

"No one can be perfect," the king agreed, prodding his uneaten pigeon pie with his knife. He stared vaguely at his goblet. "Would my father do it?" he inquired in a sudden sort of way. "Would my father kill his hostages?"

Oberyn arched an eyebrow as he drank more Dornish red. "Are you bearing it in mind, Your Grace? Do you plan to kill your hostages?"

The king continued to poke his pie in such a manner that it reminded Oberyn of when one of daughters in their girlhood would try and steal a weapon or two from him without his knowledge, and feel guilty about it afterwards.

"I need to show Orys Baratheon that I'm not fooling with him," said the king, a minute or two later. "I want peace, but he must know that I'm the rightful king. If it comes to it, I plan to kill a hostage. What else are they for? Negotiations are not going anywhere and the longer we wait, the chances of the other lords swearing fealty to me lessens. Right now loyalties are wavering and I need their support. It is imperative. Absolutely imperative."

It was probably a Tyrell who influenced the king to think that way. Trust those Tyrells to do that. _The Queen of Thorns must be very convinced in Aegon_ , Oberyn pondered. _Perhaps she wants her Baratheon good-granddaughter dead now too, as any child she has would be a rival to her granddaughter's little Targaryens_. Who knew what the wily Queen of Thorns wanted – with a claim, she could secure the Iron Throne for the Tyrells. Oberyn suppressed a glower. _I'd rather have my eyes gauged out than swear commitment to a Tyrell king_. A Tyrell queen was tolerable – for the sake of restoring and keeping Aegon Targaryen on the Iron Throne. _The next Targaryen king will most certainly not wed a Reach maiden,_ Oberyn thought. _I will make sure of that_.

"Prince Oberyn?" The king was expecting an answer.

"Killing hostages will not bond you any closer to the people," said Oberyn with careful consideration in his words. "The people may view killing hostages as very cruel and think your victims as martyrs who died for the Baratheon cause. If you had a male hostage or two, wounding them and sending a limb or two can deliver a message, but as you only have women…" He allowed his voice to trail away.

"I have no desire to be seen as the most dishonourable man in Westeros," said the king flatly. He pushed his plate of pie away. "However, the stag loyalists need to know that I am not weak!"

The doors of the Great Hall creaked open and the Spider, smiling as usual, and the sour-faced Lord Celtigar entered. The king clicked his tongue in annoyance at the sudden interruption.

"What is it?" said the king testily.

"Your Grace." The eunuch bowed. "Prince Oberyn. We bring ah…bad news of a sort. As we are missing a grand maester, you gave me and Lord Celtigar the job of reading the letters sent by ravens. In the last day alone, we read about a dozen or so letters from lords of the Crownlands crying out for help. Apparently the Young Stag is tired of waiting and had sent his soldiers to attack the lands that belong to the lords of the Crownlands."

The king frowned. "Why would he do such a thing?"

"As a distraction?" Oberyn suggested. "Orys Baratheon isn't a fool. He learnt a great deal of military tactics from many good generals. He is desperate for a first victory to win over more men. He needs more time – what better way than throw a diversion at us?"

"If Baratheon wants more men, attacking the lords' lands isn't very wise." The king looked at Oberyn. "You are my Master of War, Prince Oberyn. What are your thoughts on our next move?"

It was indeed a clever move on Orys Baratheon's part. Attacking the lands that belong to lords of the Crownlands who just recently swore allegiance to the king of House Targaryen…quite clever indeed. If Aegon did naught, the lords would no doubt turn their coats to the stags in a matter of seconds. That would not do…but if the king sent troops to help the Crownlands lords, it would assure them that he did care for them – that was what Aegon needed. It would be a waste of men and resources, but it was unfortunately necessary if the king wished to remain on the Iron Throne for the rest of his life.

"Uncle?"

Oberyn snapped out of his thoughts sharply. _Uncle?_ Since when did the young king start calling him uncle? "It's best to send some troops," said Oberyn, forcing himself to answer rather than dwell on matters of the heart. "If we abandon lords of the Crownlands, we lose a vital part of our defence. If the Crownlands turn to the side of the stags, all lands north of the Red Keep will be against us."

"We will fall into the stag's trap then," the king pointed out sceptically.

"Would it not be better to lose a few men trying than the whole region turning against you, Your Grace?"

The king nodded, albeit reluctantly. "Keep our best soldiers here. They will be more useful in an actual battle. Send some sellswords. Ensure they wear sigils of House Targaryen so the lords of the Crownlands are aware that I sent them."

"I will also send Tyrell soldiers," promised Oberyn, "and a few Dornish spears. It may also strengthen morale if you yourself is present, Your Grace. I don't want to put you in danger my king, but if you aren't there in the Crownlands, the lords will most likely think you do not care for them."

The king frowned. "We don't even know where Baratheon plans to fight. What do we do? _Guess_ where the Stag King plans to attack next?"

"Predict, Your Grace." Oberyn smiled. "Give me the letters, a detailed map and an hour or two and I will find out where our Young Stag will send his men by the time of probably the next raid."

* * *

"You sounded very certain, my prince of Dorne." Varys the Spider's enigmatic voice flowed into Oberyn's chambers.

Oberyn chuckled, keeping his eyes on the map on the table. It wasn't the most updated map, but it was still quite detailed no doubt drawn by the steady hand of a patient or bored maester. In less than an hour, Oberyn had read and studied all the letters sent by frantic lords. At first it had seemed like the Stag King had sent his soldiers to attack lands without a care, but upon closer examination, a pattern emerged. Well, it might not even be a pattern, but it was one Oberyn had spotted. He dipped his quill into a pot of red ink and carefully marked out the places that the stag pretender had sent his men with small, clear circles. He almost smirked. If a maester caught him writing on an ancient map, the poor maester would be at a loss for furious words! What was the point of copying out maps if they weren't to be used for battle planning?

"Can you truly bring our dear king a guaranteed victory?" The Spider went on, rubbing his soft white hands together. "You are his only surviving uncle after all, but I doubt even that significant factor can save you from deep trouble if you fail to deliver him the victory he dearly wants."

Oberyn laughed. "You are a funny man, Lord Varys. Your words always makes your listener doubt himself."

The Spider tittered. "I am the Master of Whispers."

"Why are you here?" Oberyn appreciated a good banter like any man, but now was not the appropriate time for bantering. "Not to annoy me I hope."

"A little bird told me you wish to take our beloved king with you to battle. Not exactly the protective nature of a kind uncle, eh? Our king is probably excited for a battle, but would it not be safer to keep him here until our sweet queen births a dozen dragon babes?"

Oberyn scoffed. "Our king needs to prove to the people that he cares for them. Him merely showing up in the scene of the battlefield will do the trick. I will keep him safe of course."

"In the heat of battle, Prince Oberyn? With enemies surrounding you?"

Oberyn chose to ignore Varys the Spider's mild taunt. He gave one last look at the map of the Crownlands. Either Orys Baratheon took a castle for his own or in the Crownlands, there was a lord – or lords – still loyal to the stags. It was highly unlikely that Baratheon and his troops made camp in the Riverlands and made a gruelling journey to attack the Crownlands every day.

"Hayford Castle is already taken," Oberyn said aloud as Varys glanced down at the map with interest – genuine interest? "No resistance there I take it. Langward lands have also fallen to the stag as have Mallery Castle. One raven states that the stag has taken Lord Lothar Mallery and his family as his prisoners." He pointed at the red circles. "For some reason, young Baratheon is sending his men to raid the lands of that are closer to the borders. Both the Langward and Hayford lands are near Kingsroad and borders the Crownlands as does Mallery Castle."

"Excellent observation Prince Oberyn," said the Spider with a simpering smile. "Quite excellent indeed. You do not need to tax your mind about the locations of the next raids. My little birds have already sung the locations to me."

Oberyn sighed in exasperation. "Why did you not say that to begin with?"

The bloody eunuch tittered again. "I thought to dissuade you from taking King Aegon to the battlefield, but as you are intent on doing so, I might as well tell you what my little birds sang to me only ten minutes ago." He smiled. "The Baratheon pretender plans to meet up with his supporters – _Crownlands_ supporters. I know for a fact that the Chytterings are still stag supporters. My little birds sang that in half a day, the Baratheon pretender will be laying siege to Duskendale and House Gaunt's lands. If both those lands fall-"

"Then Baratheon will have almost all of the Crownlands," finished Oberyn. "All of mainland Crownlands that is." He scratched his chin in thought. It was not that much of a surprise that Duskendale was the chosen target – a pity it was so soon. Castle Gaunt though? To Oberyn's knowledge, the Gaunts were loyal to whoever the ruling family was. Then again, so were the Hayfords and Mallerys.

Oberyn looked at the map for the final time before he said to the Spider, "I am grateful for your little birds' reports, Lord Varys. However, forgive me. I must tell the king and gather the soldiers."

Varys the Spider dipped his head. "Of course, my prince."

* * *

"You changed your tune, Uncle," the king commented as he rode up to Oberyn on his black destrier named Balerion. "Once you would have made snide remarks about my in-laws; you are silent now."

Oberyn smiled, though it seemed to be more like a smirk. "If I only trusted the spears of Dorne, we would have lost the Crownlands completely Your Grace. As a good number of Tyrell men are here, why not use them? They have sworn loyalty to you after all." Besides, if the Tyrells planned to complain, it would be seen that their allegiance to the king was not as true as they so often claimed. "The Tyrells are good soldiers too," Oberyn added grudgingly. It was time to accept the thorny roses of Highgarden as part of the family.

The king didn't comment. Oberyn slid a glance in his way. For a young man of twenty, Aegon Targaryen did not look worried or cocky. He looked…impassive. A trait he picked up from his life in Essos? _Perhaps he is thinking of battle. It will be the first in which he spills blood_. Many princes had fought in wars and skirmishes in the reigns of their fathers, but Aegon hadn't. _I doubt Jon Connington would let the son of his dead best friend engage in any sort of physical combat with the single exception of training._ Was it a wise move? Well, a lack of combat involvement on the streets of Pentos did keep Aegon alive to take the Iron Throne.

Closing his eyes for a second, Oberyn pushed those thoughts from his mind. As he, the king and troops of men consisting of Reachmen, sellswords and a portion – a small portion – of Dornishmen approached the Stokeworth lands, he changed his thoughts to the upcoming battle. The king needed a decisive victory. Without it, even the staunchest of supporters would no longer be so…loyal.

"Your Grace! Prince Oberyn!" A rider wearing a tunic emblazoned with a white lamb holding a golden goblet on a green field (the Stokeworth sigil) had spurred his horse towards the king and Oberyn. Behind him were a small force of soldiers, some on horses and some on foot.

"Yes?" Hope lit up in the king's eyes.

"I am Ser Manmore Stokeworth," the man introduced himself. "Cousin to Lady Stokeworth and commander of the Stokeworth army. Lady Stokeworth heard of the Baratheon forces laying siege to Rykker lands and sent me here with her men to aid you in the battle."

"I am grateful to Lady Stokeworth," the king acknowledged. "We will be on our way through Lady Stokeworth's lands as it's the quickest and most direct to Lord Rykker's lands."

Ser Manmore nodded. "Allow me and my men to lead you Your Grace."

The king smiled. "That will be greatly appreciated."

Oberyn gave a slight nod too. He did not know the Stokeworths very well, but to his knowledge, not many lords or ladies would willingly offer their own troops to a virtually unknown king unless it was out of fear or cowardice. In view of the Stokeworth lands being relatively close to Duskendale, perhaps it was the fear of losing Castle Stokeworth to the stag that led Lady Stokeworth to sending an army to the king. Yes, that must be the reason. Slightly cowardly behaviour, but troops from Lady Stokeworth was better than no help at all. It wouldn't hurt to show up in battle with Crownlands soldiers either.

"We are too slow," murmured the king, glancing at the clear sky. The sun had edged closer to the middle of the enormous canvas of blue. Oberyn agreed with a nod. They had left at dawn and only set foot in Stokeworth lands. It would take at least all afternoon and night to reach Duskendale, especially with all the soldiers, some of whom were on foot. "I want you to ride ahead with half the men," Aegon said quietly to Oberyn, "or as many as you determine will secure a victory or at a most, a stalemate in our favour."

Oberyn frowned. "You-"

"I'll be safe," the king cut in. "I can fight, and Ser Rolly Duckfield is here as well as my good-brother Ser Garlan. He is an excellent warrior and I don't believe he'll consider betraying me or leaving me for dead. _Go!_ I trust you, Uncle."

Spotting the look of stubbornness in his nephew's violet eyes, Oberyn slowed down his steed and turned to the host of soldiers who rode behind him. "My good men," he announced. "We will be riding ahead on His Grace's command!" Naught more was needed to be said. Oberyn urged his horse into a canter and the chosen soldiers followed suit.

On impulse, Oberyn looked back. His nephew the king was staring ahead with no sign of nervousness or fear. It was like he wasn't afraid of dying in battle – it'd reminded Oberyn uneasily of Rhaegar Targaryen.

* * *

By the time the sun was kissing the highest branches of the distant trees in the woods ahead, Oberyn and his troops were close to the patch of woods that was a frequent source of dispute between Houses Follard, Rykker _and_ Pyle.

"It's a good time to rest my prince," said Ser Manmore's brother Ser Elbar who had ridden alongside Oberyn. "No one will harm us here."

The second Ser Elbar finished speaking, Oberyn heard the sound of a whizzing arrow. "Down!" Oberyn shouted. Too late. The arrow hit Ser Elbar squarely in the chest. Ser Elbar's black horse neighed in fright and galloped wildly away with its master's body slumping back, blood seeping out from the arrow wound. Oberyn swore and ducked as arrows zoomed at him and his men from every direction in between the trees. He raised his steel round shield and felt at least three arrows smash into it. Oberyn swore again as he sensed his own horse shift fretfully. This was…unexpected. A bloody ambush…

Suddenly, the assault of arrows ceased.

Breathing heavily, Oberyn look around. A lot of men were shot down, a couple injured but many dead, surprised by the unexpected attack. However, there were still many alive and ready to fight.

"Who's there?" Oberyn dared to call out.

No response.

Oberyn yanked out the arrows stuck in his shield and threw them to the forest ground. He gripped his spear and shield and shouted, " _Who's there?_ "

No response.

Oberyn gestured for the soldiers to dismount and ready an attack. Better to be on foot than fall from an injured horse. Taking a deep breath, Oberyn took a step forward and yelled, "In the name of King Aegon!" He raised his spear and pointed it in the direction of trees, aware of the sinking sunlight.

" _Attack!_ "

* * *

 **I decided to write in the POV of Oberyn so we could understand his thoughts on Aegon and start an unexpected battle.**

 **There might be a Tormund POV chapter in the future, but no promises there.**

 **Merry Christmas to those who are celebrating Christmas today and I hope you had an awesome and splendid Christmas to those who have already celebrated Christmas! :D**


	119. Shireen II

The cold wind lashed against Shireen's cheeks, no doubt berating her for each and every foolish and almost mad decision she made in the last three days alone. _Would Steffon have done what I did? Would Father?_

Against her better judgement, Shireen had decided to stay at Haystack Hall.

Against her better judgement, Shireen had sent out a flurry of letters to all the storm lords…with the help of Haystack Hall's maester, Gylbar.

And against her better judgement, Shireen had taken up the irresponsible and reckless habit of staring out her chamber window every morning at dawn as well as every evening, no matter if it was a warm morning or a freezing cold night like this one. Being granted good health was a gift; wasting it by being ravished by an icy breeze was foolish. Yet Shireen was drawn to staring out the window. Not for a knight in shining armour, by the Seven no, but for Father's bannermen to show up with their troops.

For the last three days, not one storm lord had appeared. Not one reply either. In fact, nothing much had occurred except a tense argument with Lord Errol. "No, it must be a jest my lady!" Lord Sebastion Errol had protested, panic painted over his face. "You sentenced my whole family to death!"

"I did no such thing my lord," Shireen had responded calmly. "Surely the king, my cousin, will be delighted to hear the lords of the Stormlands have gathered in _your_ castle to help plan rid the Seven Kingdoms of a pretender? He'll consider it a deed of loyalty, Lord Errol. Loyal lords will be rewarded, as you well know. I can also inform the king of how much you did for House Baratheon – healing my lord father, providing me, Lord Seaworth and his son Devan refuge and allowing lords of the Stormlands to plan under your protection and such – and good fortune will come your way. Your future child may be raised alongside the king's future child, or even be a squire for the king." She'd been careful not to mention a marriage; it was not her place to broker marriage pacts.

"That is quite a gamble my lady."

"You swore fealty to House Baratheon, Lord Errol." Shireen had forced herself to sound stern. "I always thought you an honourable man."

"I cannot promise my good-father will approve, my lady. Lord Penrose had ah, ancestors who were Targaryens or had the blood of the dragons and he had also fought for House Targaryen in the past. I…I will uphold my vows to the king, but I expect aid in arms and soldiers if Lord Penrose attacks my lands."

Shireen had thought that would be quite unlikely as Lord Errol's wife was the Lord of Parchments' granddaughter, but for the sake of placating Lord Errol, she had given him a nod of assent.

Sighing, Shireen turned away from the window, her cheeks cold and her heart heavy. _What if it is a mistake, sending the letters? What if the lords had enough of Father and are ready to accept a new lord paramount?_ Shireen instantly brushed her worried thoughts aside. The storm lords – most of them – had been steadfast supporters of the Baratheons for years. They wouldn't abandon her father for an Essosi sellsword lord paramount…would they?

There was a quiet tap on the door. "My lady?"

Shireen froze. "Devan?" she called hesitantly.

The door creaked open and Shireen almost sighed with relief when she caught sight of Devan's familiar face.

"Devan," Shireen said again, more warmly yet still carefully. She walked to the door and opened it wider. "Is there news of my father?"

"Maester Gylbar said he is on the road to recovery," answered Devan, stepping back a little, "but Lord Baratheon is still…" He hesitated. "Under the effects of the milk of the poppy."

Shireen nodded. "I pray he will recover swiftly." It was her turn to pause. "Are you hear to um, tell me more…more news?"

"I've watched you over the last few days my lady." Devan's cheeks grew red by the yellowish glow from the torch in his hand. "You stare out the windows even if the weather is cold. Aren't you afraid of catching a fever my lady?"

"I was hoping there would be replies," Shireen admitted. "I didn't expect half a dozen lords to appear, but at least a raven or two, but none came. I'm afraid if we wait here any longer and no lord appears, Lord Errol will think his fellow lords of the Stormlands have joined the Targaryen cause." She faltered. "Lord Errol won't hesitate to sell us to the Targaryen pretender for protection and safety."

"Be patient, my lady. It takes time for lords to travel here. It isn't Storm's End." Devan smiled shyly. Shireen slowly nodded. What he said made sense. _How did I not consider the lords' travel time?_ Of course it would take some lords, especially the marcher lords, Lords Trant and Estermont more than three days to travel to Haystack Hall. _What of the closer lords?_ A voice whispered in Shireen's mind. _It'd take less than three days for Lords Peasebury, Rogers and Buckler to journey here._ The thought did not fuel Shireen's confidence.

"Thank you Devan," said Shireen, returning a smile. "You are loyal to Father – I will never forget it. You should rest though. Long days to come."

Devan dipped his head. "Good night my lady."

"Good night Devan." Shireen watched Devan Seaworth turn and slip away. She kept watching until the quivering yellow light from his candle shrunk into a little speck and then disappeared all together. Shireen softly closed the chamber door and looked at her bed. _Might as well get some sleep_ , she contemplated. Hopefully good fortune would come and pay a visit tomorrow.

* * *

The sound of shouting shook Shireen awake from a fitful night's sleep. Bleary-eyed, Shireen stumbled out of bed and hurried straight to the window. Her eyes widened. Waiting in the courtyard were troops of men and horses. Errol men had ran this way and that way, taking horses to the stables and gesturing for the men to enter the castle, probably to the Great Hall.

Without wasting another second, Shireen swiftly changed into the dull yellow gown cinched at the waist with a plain black belt. Lady Errol had kindly given her a few dresses of her own. In gratitude, Shireen had worn them. However, as there would most likely be a meeting of sorts today, it would be only fitting for Shireen to be present in House Baratheon's colours.

Giving her hair a quick yet careful brush, Shireen left her chamber and walked to the Great Hall, butterflies fluttering wildly in her stomach.

"Lady Shireen," said Lord Errol, hurrying towards Shireen, his uncle marching behind him. "I did not expect to host all those soldiers! There's not enough grains, meat or preserves to feed all the men and for my household to survive winter! It is impossible! A few lords I can handle, but _armies?_ Now the Targaryen pretender will be certain to turn his ire to Haystack Hall!"

"Once the Targaryen pretender's dead and his allies of the Reach subdued, it'll be guaranteed that some of their grains will go to you," Shireen said patiently. "I am grateful," she added, giving Lord Errol a smile. "I truly am, my lord." The Lord of Haystack Hall managed a tiny smile, his eyes clouded with anxiety. "How many lords are here?" asked Shireen, as the doors of the Great Hall came into sight. "I'd only glimpsed the banners of Houses Buckler, Fell and Peasebury." It felt strange to make inquiries to Lord Errol as it would frequently be the Onion Knight whom Shireen would direct her questions to.

"Lord Hasty's also here my lady," grunted Ser Stanwell. Shireen hid her look of astonishment. Over the last few days, Ser Stanwell Errol had not uttered a single word to her. _Now he decides to speak to me?_ "As well as representatives from the noble Houses of Tarth and Grandison," Ser Stanwell finished. He glanced down at Shireen. "It seems your letters were somewhat effective, my lady."

The guards stationed outside the Great Hall pushed the doors opened. Shireen waited for Lord Errol and Ser Stanwell to enter before she herself went in. About three quarters of the Great Hall was filled with lords and soldiers. As Lord Errol made his way to the dais, Shireen followed, fully aware of people gawking at the greyscale-scarred part of her left cheek.

"My lords!" said Lord Errol loudly, once silence appeared in his hall. "I greet all of you to my home."

A tall, dark brown-haired man garbed in green and black stood up. He held up a rolled piece of parchment. "I received this message a little over three days ago," he announced. He looked at the parchment and read out clearly, "My lords of the Stormlands, as you are aware, my royal cousin, our rightful king, is defending the Iron Throne against the man claiming to be Aegon Targaryen. As the king's loyal vassals, it is our duty to aid His Grace in this time of war and conflict. In the name of my lord father Stannis of House Baratheon, Hand of the King, Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and my lord brother Lord Steffon of House Baratheon, I, Lady Shireen Baratheon, command you, my lord bannermen of the Stormlands, to raise your troops and march to Haystack Hall." He looked at Shireen in the eye. "I believe you wrote this, my lady?"

Shireen nodded. "I did, my lord…?"

"Harwood Fell, my lady."

"I did, my lord Fell." Shireen's eyes flickered to the other lords present before returning to Lord Fell. "You may claim that I have no right to send such a letter to you as I am a woman _and_ I have two brothers, but I'm in the Stormlands and in a position to ensure we fulfil our duty to the king." She smiled. "I'm pleased that all of you have shown up with your men."

"We won't desert House Baratheon!" shouted another man. "We won't desert our king!" A dozen other men nodded in agreement.

"When will we march?"

"Who will lead us?"

"There's not enough time for us to wait for all the storm lords to gather here! I heard the sea is rough and the Estermonts have only started their journey here! I won't wait another week for them!"

Shireen watched helplessly as the lords and their soldiers began bickering. Oh, what would Father do? What would Steffon do in this situation? Writing a letter was much different to bellowing at the lords to be quiet. _I have never screamed at anyone in my life before…_

" _QUIET!_ "

To Shireen's surprise, it was Ser Stanwell Errol who bellowed at the men. He'd most likely been a soldier or a general before. Ser Stanwell grunted at Shireen as if telling her to continue speaking.

"My lady," spoke another storm lord, standing up. "I admire your sincerity and staunch loyalty to King Orys, and you are bold to summon us. However, you are a woman. You have no experience on the battlefield and you have no knowledge of battle strategies and tactics let alone how to wield a sword and shield. It is not ah, only your gender that is a hindrance, but your um, age as well. You cannot lead a squadron of men into battle. You do not have the experience."

"My lady." A man with a nasty scar on his right cheek stood up. He was a little shorter than Lord Fell. "I, Lord Ralph Buckler, will be delighted to lead the armies into battle. My House and yours have always been close in the past, my lady."

"Lies!" roared a lord attired in the Hasty colours of white and purple. "Houses Buckler and Baratheon were not close in the past! My men will not ride behind a single Buckler man in the vanguard! I will march my men straight back home! I'll not have my men fight under the command of a Buckler!"

"Really?" Everyone – Shireen included – turned their heads to the doors. With a tiny sigh of relief, Shireen smiled as she saw her father slowly stride in, Devan and Ser Davos behind him. Men quickly moved aside for him. Father must still be in pain, but he did not show it. His expression was solemn as always, but he was pale – sickly pale. Father's jaw tightened as he walked closer to Shireen and Lord Errol. _Is it because of the pain?_ Shireen wondered. _Or is he angry that I summoned his lord bannermen without his knowledge?_

"Lord B-Baratheon!" stammered Lord Errol. "You've r-recovered!"

Father nodded grimly. "Your maester is an efficient healer my lord." He looked around and Shireen noticed his dark blue eyes were fixed on Lord Hasty. "What's that you said about marching your men straight home, Lord Hasty?"

"Nothing my lord," mumbled Lord Hasty, cowering as Father loomed over him. "A little…little jape, that is all."

"You and your men will be in the vanguard," Father ordered. His eyes moved a little away from Lord Hasty and fixed on Lord Buckler. "Any news, my lord? I had heard from Lord Seaworth that the Dornish attack in King's Landing was naught more than a sacking in the name of an Essosi man claiming to be a Targaryen."

"Indeed my lord," confirmed Lord Buckler. "I also received word that the lords of the Narrow Sea have allied with the false dragon and most of the Crownlands have fallen to the false dragon. There's also rumours that the false dragon has um, the queen mother and the queen in his clutches as well as others of nobility."

Father nodded and promptly turned to a gawking Lord Errol. "Lord Errol, with your permission, I wish to call a council of war for all the lords of the Stormlands present in your solar in half an hour."

"Of course my lord," said Lord Errol immediately.

Father turned back to the field of lords and soldiers. "My lords, there will be a war council meeting in Lord Errol's solar in half an hour. That will be all now." As the Great Hall suddenly became full of noise as the men and lords slowly headed out, chattering to each other, glancing now and then at Shireen and Father. It was not long before the Great Hall was empty with the exception of Shireen, the two Errols, the Onion Knight, Devan and Father.

"I thank you my lord for your hospitality," Father said solemnly to Lord Errol, without any sign of hesitation. "You've done your duty to House Baratheon and it will not be forgotten." He nodded stiffly. He looked at Ser Stanwell. "You'd fought in Robert's war," he said, seemingly recognising him. "My late brother was quite impressed by your skills, from what I remember." He nodded again. "You consent to fight in the vanguard with me, Ser Stanwell?"

Ser Stanwell gave a short nod and grunted affirmation.

Shireen readied herself. _Father will speak to me next_ , she thought with a drop of certainty. _Will it be a reprimand?_ Better to be prepared for one. As she guessed, Father looked at her once he finished speaking to Ser Stanwell.

"Father," said Shireen quietly, not able to meet his eye. "I am glad you're much better. I'm pleased you recovered."

"You summoned my bannermen," Father said bluntly.

Shireen nodded. "I did, Father."

"You were not authorised to summon my bannermen as you aren't my heir – I suppose you know why?" Father did not wait for an answer. "Regardless, if you'd not summoned the lords, we would be spent the entire length of the war waiting for troops to appear." He grimaced – or was it the faintest of smiles? Shireen was never certain. "I'll send ravens to the lords again," he decided. "Some lords might have chosen to ignore your letters Shireen. They will not ignore mine." His scowl had darkened considerably.

"You are injured," Shireen blurted out.

Father frowned at her.

"There are still bandages around your arm," Shireen said, nodding at the fresh linen and bandages wrapped around his wounded arm. "You can't possibly think of marching into battle in that condition."

Father continued frowning at her. "I thank you for your…concerns," he said at last. "However, a wounded arm is naught compared to the damage the pretender will inflict on this land." He looked at Lord Errol. "My lord Errol, may I have a few minutes alone with my daughter?" It did not sound like a request.

Lord Errol and his uncle left the Great Hall without any protests.

"The Stormlands will be attacked soon," said Father promptly, before Shireen could speak. "This castle's too close to the sea and the Penrose lands. You will not be safe here. You will leave in an hour for Storm's End."

" _Storm's End?_ " Shireen was shocked. "Surely-"

"The false dragon will attack Storm's End first?" Father interrupted. "Yes, Lord Seaworth told me his reasons for bring us here. He had fair reasons too. However, Storm's End had never been taken in a siege. It will probably be attacked if we do not retake King's Landing, but for now, it will be a secure place for you. Besides, I need capable people at Storm's End. Your brother Robert is too young to manage the affairs and Steffon and Cassana are safe in the Eyrie.

"You will leave for Storm's End with Devan and a retinue of a hundred soldiers. Ser Andrew Estermont should still be there. He will be in charge of defence and I trust him to be castellan."

"Wouldn't it be dangerous travelling there now?" said Shireen uncertainly.

"The main threat would be the Fells as they sided with the dragons in Robert's war, but as Lord Fell is here, the Fells are most likely loyal to our House this time." Father paused. "You will be safe."

"If you're a lady in my position, what would you've done?" Shireen asked on a sudden impulse. She regretted it at once. Her eyes darted to the Seaworths. Lord Davos looked uncomfortable.

Father grinded his teeth. "This is not the time for those thought of questions. It is a time of war, Shireen." His lips mechanically moved into a forced smile. "I ah, I wish you luck on your journey to Storm's End. Keep an eye on your brother when you are at Storm's End. I will ensure you're well-supplied with food in case there happens to be another year long siege at Storm's End."

Awkward silence descended in the Great Hall. The last time Storm's End faced a siege was when Father defended Storm's End during Uncle Robert's war.

"Milord," spoke Ser Davos tentatively. "Maybe I can escort the Lady Shireen to Storm's End? Perhaps Devan will follow you to battle. He _is_ your squire."

Father shook his head. "Your truthful words and expertise in the sea are more of use to me than you escorting Shireen to Storm's End."

Sensing Father was done talking to her, Shireen said softly, "I'll go to my room and um…pack." There wasn't that much to pack. "I will be praying for you Father. I will pray for victory for you and your men." She dipped her head and started to walk away. As she reached out to open the door, she heard Father mutter, "There are no gods in this world."

 _Yes there is_ , Shireen thought obstinately, walking out of the Great Hall towards the corridor of guest chambers. _All you have to do is believe in the gods_. Since she was young, she had often found solace in praying. She had prayed for acceptance, and the Seven had granted that particular prayer. Even when Mother shouted at her and looked at her with disgust, she had held on to hope. It'd also helped with Devan keeping her company from time to time.

"My lady?"

Shireen looked up and saw a tall, muscular woman with long, shoulder-length brittle hair the colour of straw. She was wearing armour like a man.

"Yes?" said Shireen cautiously. "Do I know you?"

The tall woman shook her head. "We've never met before today my lady. I am Brienne, my father Lord Tarth's representative. I want to say…" She hesitated. "It is brave of you to summon us here. Not may women had summoned bannermen to a lord's castle before."

Shireen smiled. "Thank you Lady Brienne. Will you march with my father?"

"I'd hoped to," admitted Brienne Tarth. "However, I don't think Lord Stannis is the type of commander who will accept a woman in his army."

"He wouldn't," Shireen agreed. A thought struck her. "Can you instruct me in a few basic sword skills? For defence purposes?"

Lady Brienne frowned. "I…I don't think Lord Baratheon will approve."

"Oh." Shireen was disappointed, but what Lady Baratheon said carried a lot of sense. Father would not want her learning to fight – even for defence. "Good luck in battle," she said finally. "I hope we meet again, Lady Brienne."

* * *

 **Happy New Year! I hope you'll all have a great 2018! :)**

 **Some parts are a little cliché, but I had to get the storm lords moving. I had a bit of trouble with this chapter (and the last). Hopefully the next few will improve.**


	120. Robb VII

Gazing at his twin daughters cooing in their cribs, Robb was reminded of a tale Old Nan had once told him and his siblings when they were children. There once lived a lord who had married the prettiest maiden in all the land. She died giving birth to a daughter who was said to be more beautiful. Due to deep grief, the lord refused to have anything to do with his daughter. Robb did not recall the entirety of the story, but did remember it had a grim ending. Was it the girl dying alone in a tower or was it raped by wildlings? He couldn't remember.

 _The lord is a fool_ , Robb reflected, his heart throbbing painfully as he smiled as he watched the elder of the twins, Lysara, play with his thumb with interest. Over the last few weeks, Lysara had grown more active. She still slept a great deal, but when she was awake, she'd clutch whatever she found captivating with her little fingers. _Did the lord think spending time with his daughter would remind him of his dead wife?_ Dany was dead and Robb's heart ached every minute of every day yet it was spending time with their children that lifted his spirits.

Robb tore his eyes away from Lysara to look at Alysanne. Alysanne was a little more of a quiet baby, according to Mother. Robb thought her similar to Jon; both spent most of their time brooding. When Robb had remarked about it to Mother, she had laughed and said, "Babies don't brood on purpose, Robb. Even when you were an infant, you had brooded."

Lysara's happy giggle drew Robb's attention back to her. _Her smile…it is so…so like Dany's._ Robb shook his head. _I must be mad_. To have thought a baby bore the same smile as his late wife! Madness. Absolute madness. _It is time I cease thinking about Daenerys. She would want me to move on_.

"Robb?"

Robb's eyes widened. That familiar voice…it couldn't be – could it? He slowly turned around. His voice was hoarse when he whispered, " _Jon?_ " He straightened up, wincing slightly as he limped towards the bearded man in wildling garments, who stood patiently on the threshold of the nursery room with a big smile on his face. For shame, Robb almost failed to recognise his own cousin, if it was not for the man's grey – almost black – eyes. Jon's eyes.

"Jon!" Robb embraced his cousin warmly, ignoring the pain in his leg. "You're here! You're back! You're home! I thought you were gone, Jon. When I heard that you fought at the Wall and disappeared…" He shook his head. "I wanted to send a search party to look for you."

"It's good to see you Robb," said Jon, hugging him back. "Lord Stark said that I would find you here."

Robb pulled away, smiling. "I spend most of my time here now," he confessed, a little sheepish. "Well, I have been for the last few weeks. Maester Luwin said it would be in my best interest to rest for a while to allow my injuries to heal, so I'd put down my sword for a bit." He noticed Jon looking curiously at the two cradles. "Your…" Robb hesitated. "Dany's children," he decided to say. "Dany and mine."

"Twins?" Jon's eyebrows rose. " _Twins?_ "

"I was surprised too," Robb admitted with a quiet chuckle. "When I came back from the Hornwood, I was expecting one child, not two." _I didn't expect Winterfell to be under attack either._ He carefully lifted Alysanne from her crib. "Do you want to hold her?" Jon nodded and Robb placed her in his arms. Alysanne did not utter a single sound of complaint.

"Haven't carried a babe in a while," remarked Jon. "You a father now! Where is the lovely mother? Resting in your chambers?"

Robb's lips tightened. "Dany's dead, Jon," he muttered. "Died of childbed fever like her mother did."

Jon made a noise that sounded like a strangled cat. "She _died?_ " He looked up at Robb and said sadly, "I'm so sorry for your loss."

"And yours," said Robb quietly. "She is your aunt after all."

"I never thought of her in that way. I love – loved – her, but not as an aunt. She was so young. I never thought she would die so…so soon."

"Neither did I." Robb had envisioned him and Dany growing old together with a large family in Winterfell. He knew death would come for them eventually as it would for everyone, but never considered Daenerys's appointment with death to have been so soon. "I wasn't even here when she died."

"She's buried in the crypts isn't she?"

"Yes. She does not have a statue though." Father had refused Robb's request a day after Daenerys was buried. He had said that only the Lords of Winterfell and those who died for the Northern cause were permitted statues. Like any obedient son, Robb had accepted his father's decision without complaint, but he made a vow that once he was lord, he would commission a statue of Daenerys for her tomb in the crypts so she would never be forgotten. "I would have named one of our girls after her," Robb went on, "but Dany named them before she died. Alysanne" – he pointed at the babe in Jon's arms – "and Lysara. Lysara is older."

"Northern names." Jon gently placed Alysanne back in her crib and picked up a smiling Lysara who seemed to be waiting her turn to be held by him. "Reckon she chose 'Lysara' to honour Lyarra?"

Robb hadn't thought about it. Lyarra…she was still trapped in the south. All of the troops camping out in the courtyard were to march down with Father to join the rivermen to restore Orys to the Iron Throne.

"So much has happened, Robb," said Jon, as Lysara pulled his beard to Robb's amusement. "I want to hear everything that happened here."

"I want to hear what happened to you too," said Robb, laughing as Lysara gave Jon's beard another hard yank. "The last thing I heard about you was that you'd been responsible for snatching victory against the wildlings in battle, but then at the end of the battle, you disappeared."

"Well, I'm here now."

"Come now," Robb pressed. "How did you get back? Is there a lord or a farmer that Father will be rewarding for helping you?"

"It's a long story." Jon didn't meet Robb's inquisitive gaze. "I was wounded and captured by the wildlings. I'm not here to stay either. I was sent here by the King-beyond-the-Wall as an envoy along with two others."

Robb frowned. Jon a wildling? Impossible. It must be a jape…but Jon wasn't of the japing type. Robb slowly shook his head. "Wildlings would've killed you or at least crippled you."

Jon sighed. "That's what many people said," he muttered. "We've already had a round of negotiations with Lord Stark and he is willing to accept the terms for an extended period of peace between the free folk and the northmen."

"Peace never lasts very long."

The nursery door opened again and this time Father entered, more grim than ever. "Jon," he said quietly. "Your…wife, is looking for you. To my knowledge, she is roaming around the courtyard, tailed by your sisters and Lyanna Mormont. It'll be best to keep your lady wife content here. We don't want her snapping at Arya, Gwen or Lady Lyanna out of irritation. You'll have time to speak to Robb today, I promise you that." He shook his head slightly as Robb opened his mouth. Jon was married? To whom? When was he even married?

Jon nodded. He gently moved Lysara's tiny fingers from his beard and handed her to Robb. Without another word, he left the nursery, leaving Robb alone with Father and the twins.

"We don't have enough time to go through Jon's adventures," Father said once Jon exited the nursery. "I know you have many questions, but we don't have the time. You will hear his tale one day as he will hear yours. Not now though. The soldiers here are impatient to march off and fight. In their eyes, the sooner we aid the king, the sooner they can return home and prepare for winter. I was to lead them south, but due to the…ah, recent developments at the Wall, I feel my presence is needed there.

"In my stead, you will lead the troops south where you'll join forces with Lord Tully and the other river lords. Together, you'll join the king's host and if all goes to plan, you will help rid Westeros of the Targaryen pretender."

"What about my children?" asked Robb softly. "They have Targaryen blood in their veins. What if someone discovers?"

"No one will, Robb. In the eyes of the Seven Kingdoms, your children are those of a Stark and a Dornish Sand."

Robb nodded. "When do you want us to leave?"

"Tomorrow at dawn," said Father promptly. "Hopefully you'll arrive before all the soldiers of the Riverlands depart." He paused. "You know that battles are not games," he said slowly. "You don't rush in, swinging your sword."

"I know. It requires strategy and thinking."

Father nodded. "Good." He hesitated and looked uncomfortable. "You might've heard other soldiers saying that battles last long and at times they need a woman to warm their beds…" He bit his lip. "Um…"

"I won't," Robb assured him honestly. "I have no desire to sleep with women I am not married to. I won't father any illegitimate children. I promise."

Father nodded again. "May the old gods be with you, Robb."

* * *

"This will be fun," said Theon cheerfully, as he mounted his horse. "You and I'll be marching off to battle, killing enemies, fucking girls in tents and returning war heroes. Here I thought nothing exciting would ever happen and we would all die old and grey in our homes." He smirked. Robb managed to return a tiny smile. Count on Theon Greyjoy to be eager in a time of war. Typical of him to only think about fucking girls in a tent too.

Memories of the Hornwood skirmish flashed in Robb's mind. All the blood and the smell of death…

Robb suppressed a shudder.

"Robb," said Father solemnly, looking up at him. "Stay safe. Do not engage in a risk of any sort. Don't be rash in your decisions. Listen to Osric Umber and take his advice. He had fought in many battles before and is an excellent commander." His lips curved into forced smile. "Good luck, Robb. And you, Theon," he added to Theon who nodded back respectfully. "May the old gods be with you both."

"Thank you Father," murmured Robb. "May your own journey to the Wall be a fruitful one. Hopefully there will be peace soon."

Father nodded. He stepped back. It was a sign for Robb to lead the host out of Winterfell. Taking a deep breath, Robb scanned the crowd for the final time. The whole household was part of the gathering crowd, as were every member of his family, including his twin daughters that were held by Mother and Lady Alys. On Father's right were Arthur and Rickon, both unusually wide awake. Arthur's face was radiating with excitement. _He will not be so excited when he experiences the horrors of battle_. Arya and Gwen stood beside Lady Alys along with Lady Lyanna Mormont and the two Reeds. Was that a look of envy in Arya's eyes? Robb hoped it wasn't. Next to Father's wards was Maester Luwin, who gave Robb a slow nod, his expression blank. Robb looked away and breathed deeply again.

It was time to march south.

Robb turned to the his host of soldiers and shouted, "We march!" He urged his horse forward into a steady trot and led the troops out of Winterfell's courtyard, Theon riding at his side.

"Reckon we'll arrive in time for battle?" asked Theon.

"Maybe," said Robb vaguely. Catching sight of his friend rolling his eyes, Robb sighed and said, "If we follow my father's schedule, we'll meet up with the host of river soldiers and march to King's Landing. If we are a little slow, I will send half the troops forward to catch up to Lord Tully's soldiers. According to my father, it may be a little late as it is. However, we can't ride all day and all night."

"It takes a month to ride to King's Landing, Robb."

"We don't have a month." _We don't even have_ half _a month_. "We need to ride to Riverrun as swiftly as we can. We will journey down the kingsroad. Perhaps we'll meet the Frey troops on the way south."

"What if this Aegon Targaryen wins? We won't have time to go back and form another army. What's your plan then?"

"There should be enough men." Robb hoped he sounded confident. "The army from the Vale should be ready too. All the false dragon has are Dornishmen and a few troops from Essos." He noticed a look of unease on Theon's face. "What is it?" he inquired, concerned.

Theon looked uncomfortable. "I'm all for slaying enemies and all that, but um, there is this slight…problem."

"What?" Robb was alert. Did Theon anger a Vale knight or lord by sleeping or flirting with his daughter? To his knowledge the Vale lords could be quite proud. The tiniest of insults – intentional or not – could anger them.

"Do you remember that girl I uh fancied?"

Robb frowned. He had this conversation way too often with Theon. "Not to be rude, but which girl? I swear we spoke about this at least every month, Theon. Is it…Daisy?" No, that was a few months ago. "Lylla?"

Theon gave him a look. "Really, Robb?" He lowered his voice. " _Melia Tully_."

 _Oh shit_. Robb had forgotten about Melia Tully. _It was so long ago_ , he reflected a few seconds after he recovered from a moment of surprise. It felt like time flew a long way away since Theon mentioned Melia Tully by name. When did Theon last talk about this lady? Robb burrowed deep in his memories. Jon's return…Dany's death…killing Ramsay Snow…battle at the Hornwood…

No, it was _much_ earlier.

 _Highgarden._

Robb's lips tightened. The Highgarden wedding festivities would always be an exciting event he would remember; it would also be one of the most jarring. He'd been betrothed to Princess Lyanna during that time. A new notion struck him. _Is she safe?_ Robb wondered. _With King's Landing under Targaryen control, will she still be safe? Will Lyarra?_ He felt his cheeks redden in shame. When he was safe at Winterfell, mourning Daenerys's death, he hardly spared a thought for his former betrothed – the princess _he_ repudiated – and his own sister. _I should've paid more attention to Father's strategising and helped motivate the soldiers._

"…and I refuse to be the first kraken to be flattened by a fucking trout," Theon was saying. "I didn't even do anything Lord Tully claimed I did!"

Robb blinked at him. Theon didn't do something Lord Tully claimed he did? "I have no idea what you're talking about," he said truthfully.

Theon frowned. "You didn't receive my letters?"

Guilt prodded Robb in his chest. There was a growing mountain of letters left on the solar table the last time Robb set foot in the solar. Theon's letters might be still mixed with them. Robb shook his head. "Sorry, I didn't. Had a busy time, you know. Placating northern lords, fighting bandits in the Hornwood, keeping an ear out for news at the Wall, killing Ramsay and his men…" He didn't mean to sound so bitter or cynical, yet he went on, "I didn't dance around south, sleeping with a different girl every night, Greyjoy."

"Calm down," said Theon, who didn't look in the slightest bit offended. "I know all the stuff you had to do as acting lord. It was only a question." He paused. "The Lord of Riverrun heard – probably from his bloody son – that I had spent quite a bit of time with his daughter. He somehow convinced himself that I had taken her maidenhead. He confronted me…" He hesitated.

"And?" Robb prompted, praying his foster brother didn't do anything stupid to anger the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands.

"I denied it of course!" Theon exclaimed. He lowered his voice again to a tiny whisper. "Apparently Lord Tully had a septa examine Lady Melia and she did not have her maidenhead. Like she could've lost it riding a horse, couldn't she?"

"She could've," agreed Robb, uncomfortable with the topic of discussion.

"I…I don't actually recall if I fucked her or not."

Robb groaned. " _Theon_ …"

"What?" said Theon defensively. "I may have drank a little too much during all the celebrations in King's Landing. There were feasts every night! The flavours of wine in the south too!" He smacked his lips. "More flavoursome than the ones in your wine cellar. No offense," he added hastily, seeing Robb's glare. "Best for me to stay away from the Tullys," Theon said a second later. "I think it'll be better for me to stay with the others whilst you and Osric One-Eyed find and discuss battle plans with Lord Tully."

Robb eyed him. "I never thought you a coward, Greyjoy. Shirking away from a war council meeting? Who'll be our ironborn representative?"

Theon darkened. "Do you know what my father will say if he ever sees me? An Ironborn on the outside and a green lander on the insider. Or even worse, a plain green lander. Besides, you know as well as I do that the rivermen despise men of the Iron Islands like me."

After a moment of hesitation, Robb decided to remain silent. Nothing he could say would comfort or reassure Theon when he was in his current mood.

* * *

Robb could see the clear look of distaste on Osric One-Eyed Umber's face as he saw the Twins for probably the first time in his life. Osric On-Eyed probably lived in the North his entire life, never setting foot in the Neck or beyond.

"Are all southron castles like this?" Osric barked at Robb, squinting at the two identical stone castles standing on a margin of the Green Fork. "Full of walls and this size? More of a prison than a keep." Both stone castles had high curtain walls, deep moats and a barbican and portcullis in each. A stone bridge arched between the two castles, with the bridge footings rising from within the inner keeps. Robb remembered the exterior of the Twins well from his last visit, albeit it was quite a long time ago. Who could forget the dreary look of the Twins?

"Some," Robb admitted. "Not all look as…um…like this."

Osric One-Eyed grunted. "One of the scouts reported that this Lord Frey has a host of nearly four thousand men assembled. Reckon they plan to march with us to the Tully's keep?"

"Lord Frey never takes risks," said Robb, frowning. "In King Robert's war, they only showed up when the outcome was already decided. Why wait? Does the late Lord Frey think King Orys will fail to defend his birthright?"

"I care not for southron politics," growled Osric. "Will Frey let us cross?"

Once the words slipped through the Umber man's lips, Robb saw a sally port open. The plank bridge slide across the moat and about half a dozen knights rode forth towards him, Osric-One-Eyed, Theon and the rest of the northern host. On the knights' tunics were the Frey sigils: dark blue twin towers on a field of silver-grey. As the knights rode closer, Robb recognised them all as Freys. Each of them had the same loose chin and weaselly appearance like Lord Frey. The first knight, who had white hair and tired brown eyes, rode closer.

"You must be Lord Robb," the knight said, his tone weary. "We received word that you were on your way here. We didn't realise you would arrive so early Lord Robb. We'd anticipated you would arrive in a few days' time."

"We came as fast as we can, Ser," said Robb bluntly. "My sister the queen is in danger as it your liege lord's sister the queen mother. Forgive me for being frank, but why are your troops not at Riverrun? Surely Lord Tully had summoned you?" He glanced at the other Frey knights. One of them had a cunning smile that Robb did not like at all.

"Lord Tully did," the old, tired knight affirmed. "However, my father thought it best to wait for your troops to arrive and we march to Riverrun together."

Robb arched an eyebrow. "Any reason why, Ser?" _Lord Frey is ambitious. He'll have a reason for disobeying the orders of his liege lord_. The ancient weasel was in the midst of planning something – Robb just knew it.

The knight offered Robb a seemingly polite smile. "A sign of friendship isn't it? You are of the North and House Frey is the bridge between the north and south. I think it is a strong sign to Riverrun that we are united in one cause – to help our true king sit on the Iron Throne."

"Wouldn't it be better for you to show your loyalty to your liege lord?" Theon inquired slyly. "To my knowledge, you aren't Lord Stark's bannerman."

"Neither are you," the knight responded. "Yet you march at a Stark's side." He turned back to Robb. "Before we march to war, my lord father requests to speak to you in the castle. Discuss plans and such."

Robb nodded slowly. Fair enough. He gestured to Osric and Theon. "We will all go," he said firmly.

The knight only smiled. "Of course."

* * *

 **Lately I just couldn't motivate myself to writing a southron chapter so I decided to write a northern one. Some of you might have found the first part of this chapter a little irritating as we know Dany is dead, but Jon isn't aware of it or Robb even having twins as he wouldn't have received news of that kind beyond the Wall.**

 **On another note, Ned was supposed to lead the army south, but I decided his future presence at the Wall would lead to a nicer wrap up of the wildling-black brothers arc (and most likely a Jon and Ned heart-to-heart conversation).**


	121. Theon III

" _Heh_."

Theon felt a muscle in his right cheek twitch once he heard the ancient Lord of the Crossing smugly utter his favourite word.

" _Heh_."

At one glance at Robb, Theon could tell Lord Frey's constant _hehs_ were getting on Robb's nerves. _This is pointless!_ Robb's eyes seemed to be shouting. _Every hour we spend here, every hour Lyarra is closer to being murdered!_ Was Robb in such a rush to rescue his sister like a knight in one of the southron songs or did he want to run as far away from Winterfell as he possibly can? Theon surmised – more of a guess really – that it was the latter option.

"Lord Frey," Robb spoke. "You requested to speak to us?"

The late Lord Walder Frey looked even more like a weasel than usual, with his wrinkles more prominent and his runny and clouded eyes smaller and squinty. It did not help either that Lord Frey seemed to have caught a cold as every _heh_ was followed by a loud and disgusting sniffle.

"Robb Stark," Lord Frey said, wiping his weaselly nose with a filthy, crusty, old linen cloth. He sniffled and coughed. His eyes travelled to Theon and then rested on the one-eyed Umber giant. "I didn't say _they_ could come," he said petulantly in a way that reminded Theon of Arthur Stark when he was younger.

"Osric Umber and Theon Greyjoy are my trusted commanders," Robb stated. "I told one of your knights that we all come or none at all. He agreed."

Lord Frey pulled himself up on his massive black chair and narrowed his eyes at him. "That knight is a fool then!" he spat, spit flying from his mouth. "Last time I saw you, Robb Stark, you were betrothed to a princess!" He smirked. "Now look at you…the widower of a bastard girl. Did she give you pups, Robb Stark? Are the pups now tainted with bastard blood and unable to marry high and might lords? _Heh_. Now you come creeping to my doorstep."

Theon glanced at Robb. _Old Walder's mad_. If Robb agreed, he hid it well behind a mask of impassiveness. When did Robb get so good at hiding his emotions? For as long as Theon knew him, Robb wasn't one to hide his emotions. Most lords of the North disliked concealing their true feelings – being believers in truth and all that – and some even considered hiding emotions as an act of evil. Not many still believed it evil these days. Theon looked at the Umber giant. Like him, Umber did not seem pleased at the prospect of listening to Lord Frey rant.

"We did not _creep_ to your doorstep my lord," said Robb calmly. "We are on our way to Riverrun – where your soldiers should be too."

Lord Frey scowled. "Tullys, Baratheons, Targaryens…always commanding for men. I send them men as my father did before me and his father did before him, and what thanks does House Frey receive? _Not even a smile!_ " His face screwed to the look of an extremely pissed weasel. "Why should I send my sons to die? Not a single one of you so-called great lords would bat an eyelid or care! Heh! 'What's a death of one Frey, eh?' they ask themselves." His eyes bulged out. "No! I have my troops summoned and here they are! For all to see!"

Theon arched an eyebrow. "What use is that?" he couldn't resist asking. Robb shot him a look. _Be careful_. "Do you want to be seen as cowards?" Theon went on, folding his arms. "Dying at home instead of a battlefield?" He stared boldly at old Walder as his eyes were fixed upon him. The Lord of the Twins pointed a skinny finger at Theon. "You are still a green boy," he sneered. "Fought in a few tourneys doesn't make you a man! _Heh_." He looked back at Robb. "You've seen blood. Even killed a few, haven't you?"

"I'm here out of courtesy," said Robb, his tone cold. "You asked to speak to me – I am here. I didn't come to listen to complaints."

The old weasel sniggered. "Complaints eh? Young people these days. Have no patience for anyone but themselves."

 _Like you?_ Theon held his tongue.

"There is a _war_ ," said Robb, gritting his teeth. "Excuse me for my bluntness my lord Frey, but I don't have the time to chat."

"You want your soldiers to reach Riverrun." Walder Frey smirked. "I'm Lord of the Crossing. I can assure you that it'll be quite a hefty toll all of you'll have to pay, especially with winter so close."

"Lord Frey, as it is a war, can paying a toll not wait?"

 _No!_ Theon wanted to holler once he saw the ambitious glint in Lord Frey's eye. _A trap! This is what the old weasel wants to hear!_

As if hearing Theon's thoughts, Robb continued, "If it's my word you might not trust, I'll swear an oath by the gods to pay the toll once the war is over. If you are that eager for gold and would prevent an army reaching the battlefield, I can tell you that my good-brother the king, will not appreciate it. You are aware that my sister is his queen, are you not? If this conversation is the cause of my sister _and_ her unborn child's murders, it will not end well for House Frey."

The old weasel's nasally voice rose to an annoying squeak. "You dare threaten me? You are in mine own castle!"

Theon couldn't resist a sneer. Robb shot him a testy look.

"Young people," Lord Frey said, sighing heavily, his beady eyes fixed on Robb again. He sneezed. "So be it," he said, wiping his pink nose with the used cloth. "It is a war, as you say, Robb Stark." His eyes shone with distaste. "I'll grant you your crossing and you'll pay the toll the second this war ends." He paused. "However, I want more than your word for it." He gave Robb and Theon a toothless grin. "I'm an old man, and a pup or a squid's _word_ doesn't mean much to me. You probably claim later that you gave me no word. _Heh_."

Theon shifted uncomfortably. He didn't like the way the weasel looked at him. What did he want? _Am I to be another hostage?_ Theon grinded his teeth. Some of the Starks called him their guest – not much a better title than hostage. Being the hostage to the Starks was one thing – hostage to the Freys was another.

If Theon thought his tolerance for old Walder Frey was thinning considerably, the Umber giant had no drop of patience left.

"Enough riddles," Greatjon Umber snarled, taking a threatening step forward. "I've had enough of them!"

Ignoring him, old Frey announced, "I have unmarried sons and grandsons and many daughters and granddaughters to get rid of." He smirked. "If you're in need to cross my bridge numerous times in this war, I consider that a benefit that only a few _worthy_ matches can bring. _Heh_."

Uneasy murmurs broke out in the huddle of northerners behind Theon, Stark and Umber. It seemed the thought of having Frey in-laws was disconcerting. The old weasel sat on his black chair, smiling nastily down at them.

Theon met Robb's troubled gaze. How many marriages could the weasel even extract from the northern lords over the use of a fucking bridge? Old Frey would want a Stark in-law for sure – that'd be something to gleefully boast about. Theon could already picture the rather frightening scene: Lord Frey cackling to anyone who'd listen about his good fortune, a grim-faced Robb sitting with the other half a dozen – if not more – Freys, his fat Frey wife sitting by his side, stuffing her face with cakes, and their litter of weaselly faced children running around, yelling and teasing their equally weaselly faced cousins. Robb must thank his gods that he'd not be required to live at the Twins with his squabbling in-laws-to-be.

"Their dowries are probably less than that of a goat," grumbled a tall man with a deeply-lined face and brown-grey hair. Theon remembered him to be Robett of House Glover from Deepwood Motte. _It seems the rare feasts at Winterfell have at last, paid off. So many introductions, but at least I know who the lords of the North are._ He did not know all the lords by face as well as Robb and probably Bran, but by sigil? Theon was proud to say he recognised all the northern houses.

"Lord Robett," said Robb warningly.

 _I'm sure each girl is worth more than a stoat_. Theon kept his mouth shut. Even the tiniest of insults could saddle him with a fat Frey wife.

Osric One-Eyed crossed his arms. "I won't fuck a-"

"I won't mind a southron wife," interrupted Ser Donnel Locke. Theon couldn't help but arch an eyebrow in surprise. Wasn't there a tale about some Locke sent to the Wall after being beaten up for marrying a southron girl? Or was it the Wull woman that was left beyond the Wall for flirting with a southron knight?

"You'd marry a southron wench?" asked Osric sceptically.

"Why not?" said Theon breezily. The other northern lords glanced at him. "I've seen many southron maidens," he went on. "Some really know how to keep your bed warm at night."

" _Theon_ ," groaned Robb. "Now is not the time!"

The one-eyed Umber snickered. "I'd like to go home to a warm bed. Mayhap it is time for me to fulfil one of my duties to House Umber."

"Really?" said Theon, surprised.

Robb turned to the smirking Lord Frey. "Ser Donnel Locke and Osric Umber – two of the North's greatest generals – are willing to wed your daughters or your granddaughters. We wish to cross today."

Old Frey scratched his nose, the tip of it pink. "Only two lords, Robb Stark? For the use of my bridge throughout this war? Now that doesn't seem fair. Say I have a Stark in the family…" His voice trailed away as he gave Robb another sly smile. Theon bit his lip in annoyance. What was with this mad weasel insisting on being connected to the Starks through marriage? The Freys weren't even sworn to the Starks of Winterfell – they were bannermen to the Tullys.

"Is an Umber not good enough for the likes of you?" exploded Osric One-Eyed, his massive fingers curling into fists.

Theon stayed silent as Robb and old Walder kept haggling over the marriages and the damned bridge.

 _All this for a bloody bridge. It better be worth it._

* * *

"Can you believe the nerve of that man?" Robb hissed angrily as the hazy outline of the Twins had at last disappeared from sight. "He thinks he's the king! He extorted _four_ marriage promises and I have to take his son Elmar as a squire! All for a bridge!"

"Weasels are weaselly," jested Theon. "It is in their nature to weasel what they want from us men. On the bright side, we can use the bridge anytime we wish in the time of war without paying the toll. You did specify to Frey that we can use it during and after the war to return home without paying the gold. Clever of you to extract the deal of trading grains and food with us in the winter too."

Robb didn't look appeased. " _Four_ marriages!"

"Be happy you didn't have to marry a stoat. I swear that weaselly lord wanted you to marry that fat granddaughter of his."

Robb snorted. "If he had, he's too late. Osric One-Eyed claimed her. Not sure if he wanted her for her weight in silver or a comforter on his bed."

Theon sniggered. "Both are good reasons Stark. Reckon Donnel Locke's telling the truth about his reasons for wedding a Frey? To repopulate his noble house! A jape, isn't it?" He laughed so hard he almost fell off his horse. Finishing his laugh with a deep cackle, he was pleased to see Robb crack a genuine smile. He had not seen his foster brother truly smile in quite some time.

"Good to see both of you japing away." Osric One-Eyed rode up behind Theon and Robb. "I always like a good jape before marching into battle. So! What are the two of you jesting about eh?"

"Fucking girls," said Theon simply, ignoring a sharp hiss from Robb. "Robb is a northman to the bone – he said the prostitutes of the North are warm enough for him. I say otherwise. Northern girls are good in bed, but southron sluts?" He gave another chuckle. "Some can be as wild as wildlings."

"I've fucked wildlings before," said Umber thoughtfully. "Haven't really fucked a southron wench before. Does a crannogwoman count?"

Theon frowned. "How did you-"

"We're approaching Riverrun," Robb cut in swiftly. "I don't think the southron men will be happy overhearing your discussion on prostitutes. They might join in, but it will not be a good view on us northerners. They already think us savages of sorts – we don't want them viewing us in worse light."

"I don't give a fuck on what southroners think me," scoffed Osric One-Eyed. "If they think me a savage, I'll treat them the way a savage would."

"Southroners hate me anyway," said Theon, thinking of Hoster Tully, the heir of Riverrun, who reminded him of a bloodhound, always sniffing around when he was at court or attending important wedding festivities. "For the sole reason that I'm a Greyjoy of Pyke." He used to take pride in being an ironborn with ancestors who were notorious for their raids, but now? Southroners despised him because of the legendary ironborn raids; northerners still mistrusted him because he was ironborn; and the ironborn might not think him one of their own as they haven't seen or heard from him in years.

Theon felt a slight chill in his veins. _I'm not a northerner or a southroner; not a man of the Iron Islands in the eyes of the other ironborn either_. _Who am I?_ He could continue calling himself an ironman, but he'd be lying to himself. He had not been a true ironborn since he was a boy of ten.

"Greyjoy! Stop thinking with your dick!"

Theon blinked. "I wasn't!" he protested as the one-eyed Umber laughed. Robb nodded slowly. He didn't look convinced.

Silence returned to the front of the party. Theon glanced around. The forest of trees that surrounded the path were coming to an end, leading to a big huddle of tents that encircled the grounds near the castle of Riverrun. The only music that could be presently heard were the dull crunches of the horse hooves stamping on the thick carpet of dead leaves fallen on the wide path from the trees.

 _Is she still there?_ Theon thought, as his eyes became infixed on the sandstone walls of Riverrun. His brown steed seemed to hesitate, pawing at the dirt with an unnaturally high whinny. Theon frowned and urged his horse to move a little bit closer to Robb's horse. Why is his own bloody horse afraid of Riverrun? Maybe it could already sense Lord Tully's fury. _Smart horse_. Theon forced himself to smile as Robb looked at him, concerned.

"Don't worry, Stark," said Theon as breezily as he could manage. "No trout has bested a kraken of yet."

Robb's expression only darkened. "It's no joking matter, Greyjoy. If Lord Tully catches sight of you, he might want to kill you for what you did – or didn't do – to his _eldest_ daughter. How do you think your lord father would feel if someone had the gall to fuck your sister?"

Theon burst into laughter. "My sister? _Asha?_ I say good luck to that man brave enough to fuck her! He'll probably have his balls chopped off by her! Besides, she isn't exactly pretty like-" He broke off. _Like Melia_.

"I hope you don't laugh your way to your own death," said Robb quietly. "Let's go. We need to meet up with the river lords as soon as we can to discuss what the plan of attack is and if any troops have been sent off yet. When it comes to battle, I want you to stay away from Lord Tully's men – stay with my men."

"Can't I lead a host of my own?"

Robb shook his head. "Father said for me to keep an eye on you."

Theon sighed, a cloud of gloom settling in his gut. Even in a time of war, it was apparent that he was still the Starks' 'guest'.

* * *

Though it was late afternoon by the time Theon dismounted and went with his foster brother and the northern lords into Riverrun's Great Hall, there was a host of soldiers in the courtyard preparing to leave. Some of the men had donned fish-crest helms – probably Tully guards.

One of the fish-crest helmed men walked up to Robb and Theon who stood at the back of the Great Hall awkwardly. "You must be some of the northern lords," he said politely. "A scout said he saw an army of northmen coming. My lord Tully is in his solar. Finalising plans I believe."

"Thank you," said Robb, nodding at the guard. "I'm afraid my lords and I aren't very familiar with Riverrun. I myself have only been here once, for the late Lord Hoster Tully's funeral, and that was a few years ago. By chance, are you and your men over there leaving for battle? I haven't received word from anyone here that we're to march off to war."

The guard hesitated. "Elwood can take you to the solar, my lords. Not all of us are to march into battle…yet. That's all I know." He turned and shouted, "Elwood! Come and escort these two men to Lord Tully's solar! They're Lord Tully's allies from the North!"

Another Tully guard hurried towards them, holding his battered helm. "Milord Tully will be expecting you milords," he said to Theon and Robb, giving them two respectable nods. "May I ask your names?"

"I am Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell," said Robb. He pointed at Theon. "He's my lord father's ward, Theon Greyjoy, heir to Pyke." Theon disliked the colder glance Elwood shot him, his eyes filled with mistrust. "That man over there is Lord Osric Umber," Theon added before Robb could. He nodded at Osric One-Eyed who was towering over a number of rivermen near the trestle tables. "One of the North's finest," Theon went on, enjoying the look of horror on Elwood's face. "It was said that once he was so provoked-"

"Ignore him," Robb interrupted, prodding Theon sharply in the ribs. "He has a great deal of enthusiasm in him when he describes our fellow lords."

Elwood nodded slowly, giving Theon an apprehensive look. "I…see. Well if you come with me milords, I'll take you to Lord Tully's solar."

"Lord Osric!" Robb called. Osric-One Eyed lumbered up to him, a slice of bread in one hand and a cup of ale in the other. Together, they – and Theon – went with Elwood through one of the three smaller doors in the Great Hall and up the spiral stairway to what was probably Riverrun's keep. Standing outside a door that was engraved with an old carving of a jumping fish were two more fish-crest helmed guards, one with a long grey beard and the other half a head shorter than Theon. The latter smiled at Elwood. "You haven't left yet, Elwood?"

"Not yet," answered Elwood. "I will in half an hour." He gestured to Theon and Robb, hesitating a little before pointing at Osric One-Eyed. "Here are the lords of the North – Lord Robb Stark, Lord Osric Umber and…" He faltered as he looked at Theon. "Lord Theon Greyjoy. They've just arrived from the North. Their soldiers and commanders are in the Great Hall with the troops from the Riverlands. Is the Lord Edmure presently occupied? I'm certain he'll be interested to meet his allies. Let them in, will you?"

The grey bearded guard pushed the door open. Theon waited for Robb and the Umber giant to go in before he entered the solar.

There he was, Theon's new enemy. Staring at a map on his table was the Lord of Riverrun. Lord Tully looked older and exhausted. His auburn hair was untidy, and his red beard longer than usual. His blue eyes screamed stress – they turned to anger the moment they landed on Theon.

" _You!_ " the trout lord snarled, pointing a finger at Theon. "I've told you never to come within my sight again! Were your ears full of ale, Greyjoy?"

"This is war my lord," retorted Theon, crossing his arms. "You want all the aid you can get, don't you? You rather risk the chance of your nephew losing a battle due to wasting time arguing with me?"

Lord Tully scowled. "I swore by the gods that if I see you again, I'll kill you for deflowering my daughter." His eyes lingered on Robb before returning to Theon. "However, I have no desire to anger your northern…protector. You may drink or eat in my keep like the other soldiers _only_ for the duration of the war but you will not go near or interact with any of my daughters. If I find out that I have another ruined daughter, courtesy of you, Greyjoy, I'll have your balls removed and have you sent to the Wall for your crimes. Are we clear?"

Theon wasn't afraid in the slightest of the trout's empty threats. He was worth much more in one piece and the Greyjoy heir of Pyke than a black brother with a few missing appendages.

"Are we clear?" the glowering Lord Tully repeated.

"Perfectly," said Theon calmly. As the Lord of Riverrun leant back in his chair, Theon made a silent vow to himself: _I will see Lady Melia again. Even if it's for the final time._

* * *

 **I've been overseas for the last month hence the lack of updates. I know this is a late response: Padfoot67, Jon's wife is Val :)**


	122. Val II

Val never understood the southron appeal in living in a castle with thick walls and iron gates everywhere. Where was the fresh air? The pleasure of cooking at an open fireplace whilst staying warm in winter? You couldn't get fresh air or the joy of staying warm and cooking at an open fireplace while being holed up like an animal in a grim castle.

The only other matter Val disliked more than being imprisoned in a castle full of stale air was the flurry of servants who were forced to call those supposedly of higher rank than them, "Milord or milady." It reminded Val of the skirmishes that she'd fought in against the crows and their noble allies. Some of the lordlings had been cut down shouting, "My lord!" or "milord!"

" _Come on!_ "

Val's ears pricked up at the hushed whisper. Lately she'd been spending most of her time lurking in the courtyard, watching and waiting for news. Nothing else had really happened at Winterfell. Gloomy Lord Snow hid himself away in either his chambers, Stark's solar or some other place in the castle; the Giantsbane was often spotted lurking near the kitchens or kennels, probably hunting for a bold or loose-moral girl to fuck; and the majority of the Stark people kept way unless it'd been absolutely necessary to speak to her or Tormund.

"Are you sure about this?" hissed an uncertain female voice.

" _Yes!_ " Val recognised that the voice belonged to the first whisperer. "Don't be a craven, Gwen! You know Mother is too occupied right now. Just because Robb's taken most of the good weapons to war doesn't mean we should slack off! Where is Meera? I didn't see her come out with us."

"She's with Jojen…"

As stealthy as a shadowcat, Val silently pursued the whispers, careful not to be seen by either the speakers or anyone else who happened to be about or looking out a window. She did not want to be accused of stalking by a mistrustful servant or the prying old man garbed in grey.

Val couldn't help but smile when she caught a peep of one of the whisperers. It was Jon Snow's sisters: Arya and Gwen. Val quietly walked up behind them. They had opened the door to a squat tower and were about to enter. "So what are both of you doing here?" said Val casually. The little one, Gwen, jumped in fright. Arya was faster and more prepared; dagger in hand, she stood in a defensive position. Val smirked and crossed her arms. Perhaps the women of the North and those of the free folk were not so different after all.

"Oh," said Arya uncertainly, her grip on the dagger wavering. "It's you. I don't think you're permitted to come near here." She stepped aside and Val noticed the room was a mess, with daggers and spears scattered on the ground. Well, well. It must be where the Starks kept their vast collection of weapons.

"Training?" inquired Val.

Arya nodded slowly. "I don't want to wait until the war is done. Wars can last a long time. All of winter or even more." She hesitated. "I'd hoped to practise a lot more with swords, but all the ones that are left are rusty, and I don't really know how to get rid of the rust and sharpen the blade."

Val glanced at the dagger in Arya's hand. "Daggers are as effective as swords," she stated. "Lighter to carry for a small girl like you too."

"They are good in close combat," Arya agreed. "I'm not really good at tossing them at a target though. No one would help me – or Gwen – in throwing daggers." She hesitated. "How do you throw a dagger at someone's head?"

" _What?_ " The shocked word escaped Val's lips. "You want to kill someone?" She took a step back from the apparently bloodthirsty Stark girl. "You better go back to your mother," she said decidedly, "or your father, or Jon."

"Come on!" pleaded Arya. "Jon told me that you killed two black brothers with one throw from your dagger! It's true isn't it?"

"Aye…"

"Here." The stubborn Stark girl handed Val a dagger. Val touched the handle of the dagger with her thumb. The handle was quite smooth and created from some sort of wood – probably weirwood. Val glanced at the eager Arya and her slightly more apprehensive younger sister. It wouldn't hurt to educate them in the art of dagger throwing…

 _Lord Snow won't be happy_ , a tiny voice in Val's head reminded her. _What if he's of the thought that you are fighting his little sister? He won't be brooding Jon Snow anymore; he'll be Jon the honourable knight. Or honourable fool. What of it though? I've fought against him before and I stole him. Surely I can win against him for the second time?_ She wasn't so sure. If she was honest with herself, when she'd stolen Jon, he was already wounded and exhausted. This was Winterfell, Jon's home. He would know the layout of the castle at the back of his hand, and with motivation of fighting for his sister, he would be quite the difficult adversary. _Jon Snow can't kill you,_ Val reminded herself. _You are his wife_.

"Well?" said Arya impatiently.

Val shrugged. "Why not? Where's the target?" Flipping the dagger into the air and catching it, she followed the two Stark girls into the courtyard. Arya pointed to the line of mock warriors stuffed with straw at one end of the courtyard. "They are the targets," she said helpfully.

Fighting against straw men? How was that useful?

Dismissing it as another odd custom of the North, Val stepped back and giving the target a steady look, threw the dagger at it – right in the head. She smiled as it sunk into the mock warrior's head. Perfect throw.

"Stand here," Val ordered Arya, before striding to the mock warrior and with a firm tug, yanked the dagger from the straw mock warrior's head. She strode back and handed the dagger to an eagerly waiting Arya. "Hold the tip of the dagger like this," said Val, moving Arya's thumb to one side of the blade. She adjusted Arya's other fingers – except the smallest – to the other side. "The target is quite close to us," Val told Arya, who nodded seriously. "Bend your wrist back. It will allow the dagger to turn over in the air swifter – you'll need that as that straw man target's very close to you."

"What if the target's far away?" asked the younger Stark girl, who was viewing the little lesson a short distance away.

"You keep your wrist unbent," replied Val. "It'll keep the dagger from turning a lot in the air. You don't want the dagger to spin so much at a distant target."

"How do you know so much about this?" Gwen Stark crossed her arms. "I don't think free folk like you have a master-at-arms or a maester beyond the Wall. How do you know so much about dagger throwing? Actually throwing daggers I know you can learn from your father or mother, but the theory behind it? I do not think it is a tale passed down from father to son."

"That itself is a tale for another day," said Val mysteriously. She flashed a smile at the frowning Gwen Stark and turned back to Arya. "Stand like this." She placed her weight on her right leg and stepped forward with her left foot. "You use your left hand," Val commented. "Step forward with your right foot. You don't want to feel unbalanced. Raise your sword arm in front of you and bend at the elbow so the dagger's raised alongside your head. A little further away – you don't want to cut yourself when you swing to throw." She nodded approvingly as Arya adjusted her pose. "Relax your grip. Practise this a little." She grasped Arya's forearm and gently swung it forward and back. "Understand?" Arya nodded solemnly. "When you feel comfortable, swing your arm like that and once you are pointing at that straw man, your wrist straight, release the dagger." Val released Arya's arm and moved next to Gwen Stark.

Watching Arya practise swinging her arm reminded Val of her own childhood days. As a child of the free folk, there were no lazy days. There was no day of rest or recreation. Every day from dawn to night, there were new skills to learn and a good deal of the day was dedicated to training and hunting. There were no straw men to practise with, oh no, it was hand-to-hand combat with other children the same age as her, under the watchful eye of a grown man or woman of course. _It's been so long since I sparred with a comrade_ , contemplated Val. _Dalla…Dalla was my sister and my first training partner. We'd throw daggers, practise with swords, hunt…Dalla was an excellent hunter. Her patience often won us more meat. It was at the end of a hunting day when she met Mance Rayder after all._ Marriage did not stop Dalla from hunting; pregnancy did.

And now death.

Val shook herself from her thoughts. Now wasn't the time to dwell on the past. She observed Arya take a deep breath before swinging her arm and at the precise moment, release the dagger.

For a first attempt, it was a good shot. Val walked up to the mock warrior and pulled the dagger from its stomach. She gave it back to Arya, her grey eyes round with shock at what she did. "Good throw," Val said with a small smile. "If that was your enemy, you would've wounded him, or even killed him!"

Arya managed a tiny grin. "I would've!"

"Val!"

Still looking as solemn and guarded as ever, Jon Snow marched up to Val. Val flashed him a smile. "If it isn't my lord husband," she said breezily. "Here to join a little training session with us women, Lord Snow? I was just teaching your sister Arya here, the art of throwing a dagger. She did a bloody good job, throwing that dagger of hers right into the straw man's stomach."

Jon's long face didn't break into a new expression. "You aren't supposed to be training her, Val. Arya already has enough training."

"No I don't!" Arya protested.

"We'll be leaving tomorrow at dawn," Jon said to Val, ignoring Arya. "We have a lot of ground to cover between here and the Wall. It wouldn't take us as long to get there as we spent coming here, due to the fact that we'll be travelling with my father, but it will still be at least a week. My lord father stated that he'd rather be at Castle Black early than sit here waiting for a raven."

"Fine," said Val, secretly relieved at the news. She had no desire to stay here a day longer. "Does the Giantsbane know?"

"Not yet. I haven't started looking for him. He will show up for dinner anyway. Tormund Giantsbane never misses supper."

"Well!" Val rubbed her hands together. "I've never unpacked."

Jon nodded. "Good. You'll help carry extra furs and stores with us on the trip." He glanced at Arya and Gwen. "Your mother's been looking for you," he informed them, his tone unexpectedly emotionless for a caring brother. "Apparently there is still a basket full of unfinished sewing to tend to?"

" _Jon_ ," groaned Arya. "Val's teaching us something useful. Can't you tell Mother that Gwen and I'll finish sewing later? We spent all day yesterday sewing! Mother was with us! She knows how much I hate sewing!"

"It's not that bad," said Gwen hesitantly. "It's calming at times."

Sensing a family argument about to explode, Val quickly said, "Those warriors here won't be disappearing on you overnight."

Arya stared at her incredulously. " _You_ like sewing too?"

Val laughed. It was a tale to tell another day – if it would ever be told to a Stark.

* * *

A light shower of rain sprinkled down on Val's blonde hair as she secured the bags of supplies on the back of one of the horses. Lord Stark was kind enough to provide an extra three horses to carry the luggage. "We'd arrive at Castle Black a great deal quicker if our horses do not have to carry that much luggage as well as us," Lord Stark had decided in the brief meeting last evening. "I'll ride in the lead with two of my men and Tormund, and Jon and you Val, will ride behind me and in front of the baggage horses. Four more of my men will ride behind the horses. Between them and another eight of my men will be more baggage horses."

"Fourteen men's enough?" Jon had questioned with a frown.

"If we take more, it will take us too long to reach Castle Black. If we happen to need more men, we'll send a rider back and Ashara will arrange for more men to join us. I want this Northern matter resolved swiftly."

Remembering that conversation, Val wondered how fast she, Jon, Giantsbane, and Stark and his men could journey to the Wall in the rain. Though it was only a light sprinkle now, it could turn into a heavy downpour in a matter of seconds. It would muddy the tracks and be a major hassle for travelling.

Tightening the straps on the horse, Val felt a heavier drop of rain attack her. _It seems we'll be journeying in wet weather_. Well, thank the old gods snow was very slow this winter. On the journey to Winterfell, Val was surprised that most of the roads and woods south of the Wall have not yet been covered in snow. According to Jon it was already quite cold and it wouldn't be long before they are graced by the presence of snow.

Speaking of Jon…Val glanced around. There he was, immersed in a discussion of sorts with a bleary-eyed Arya. Catching her eye, Jon Snow stopped talking and after giving Arya a quick hug, strode up to her. "Ready to go?" he inquired.

Val smiled. She pulled up her hood. "This horse is ready to go, as is mine. What about you, _husband?_ Ready to return to the Wall?"

Jon darkened. "The sooner the better."

"For once we are in agreement!"

One of Stark's stable men hurried up to Val with her horse. "Your…your horse m-milady," he stammered. "Lord S-Stark said you n-need it."

Val almost rolled her eyes. How else was she to travel to Castle Black? By foot? Now that would take months of journeying. She patted her horse who neighed at her happily. Horses were rare beyond the Wall as many did not survive the harsh and often cold climate. The ones that did were extremely precious and would oft be stolen by enemy clans as prizes along with weapons and food. Val herself had stolen her horse from a rather aggressive and unwanted suitor a number of years ago. The poor horse had suffered under her former owner's weight and seemed a great deal happier after Val killed her undesired suitor. Now the horse was Val's, and she intended to keep it that way.

Mounting her horse, Val waited for Lord Stark to take the lead.

It wasn't very long before Val felt the icy wind slap against her face and gloved hands as she rode further away from the looming castle of Winterfell and closer to the large forest in front of her and the rest of the riding party. She recalled Jon calling the forest the wolfswood. Val stared ahead as the sight of trees thickened within her view. With the rain splattering everywhere faster and louder, it was a lot harder to have a conversation, but even if there was rumbling thunder, it was still possible to hear Tormund Giantsbane chortling and booming to those next to him, which was precisely what he was doing right now.

Val snickered. Poor Stark must be tired of listening to the Giantsbane's rather questionable stories already.

"This is a trap isn't it?" Lord Snow's low voice interrupted Val's thoughts. "By chance, are there more of the free folk hiding in the wolfswood? Will there be an ambush and will Lord Stark be killed?"

Val glared at him and said scornfully, "Still suspicious of me, aren't you? If you don't mind me saying, you're like a different man here in the south. All this…this suspicion. You had none when you were in my tent. Is your pride wounded when your friends discovered you're married to me, a _wildling?_ "

Jon's guarded expression softened slightly – for a second. "Are there free folk waiting for us at the end of the forest?"

"No," said Val promptly and honestly. "Not to my knowledge or Mance's or the Giantsbane's. If we somehow become involved in a skirmish with some men and women of the free folk, we three have no knowledge about it. What'll our motive be, _Lord Snow?_ We brought you here to help bring peace, remember? Having the Lord of Winterfell killed in a wildling skirmish doesn't seem the way to bring up the desire of peace."

"What about the Crowkiller? You think he'll settle for peace?"

Val gave Jon an exasperated look. "You've known the Crowkiller for months! It isn't years I admit, but come on Jon! You think Alfyn Crowkiller will patiently plot and wait? He's one of our best warriors, but a thinker he's not. If Crowkiller plans to sabotage Mance Rayder's peace overtures, he would've tried to kill us before we even left the camp. Good killer but terribly reckless. At times when he was in a fighting frenzy, he killed a few of his own men by accident." She smirked as Jon looked a little queasy. "Not a few," she corrected herself. "More like a dozen. That is what I heard and seen."

"How do his men trust him still?"

"It's the Crowkiller. He's a powerful leader. Rather be his comrade than enemy, don't you agree? You don't want him dismembering you alive."

"We'll keep riding!" Stark called out. Val could hardly hear him due to the loud splashes of rain. "We won't stop riding until the rain ceases!"

 _What if the rain never stops? Will we keep riding till our horses die?_ Val hoped not. Stark would probably offer her one of his horses, but the thought of owning a horse given to her as a gift was…strange. Strange and uncomfortable.

"Let's hope the rain stops," Jon Snow commented. Val glanced at him. "We can ride further without being hindered by rain," he explained and then paused. "The sooner we arrive at Castle Black the better," he said shortly. "Who knows? If the peace talks are somewhat successful, this might be the last journey the two of us take together. We might never see each other again."

"I'd raise my cup to that, Jon Snow. I'll return to my home and you'll settle in a large piece of land as Lord Snow at last."

"I'm not Lord Snow, Val. I told you that already."

"You'll be Lord of Queenscrown. Lord Snow of Queenscrown."

Jon's lips pursed. "There's never been a Lord Snow and there'll never be one in our lifetime." He hesitated and looked at Val straight in the eye. "Once the wars in the south and the Wall are over, Father said he'll request for my legitimisation. If I do end up ruling over Queenscrown, I'll be Lord Jon Stark. As my wife, you'll be Lady Val Stark." He smiled.

Val scowled. "You can be happy as Lord Stark, but I'll never be Lady Val Stark." Suddenly angry, Val spurred her horse ahead, away from Jon Snow.

* * *

 _You cannot avoid being a lady forever. You might hate Jon Snow and never see him again, but you cannot escape that infernal title. In the south, you'll always be Jon's Lady of Queenscrown; in the north, you'll be remembered as the lady tied in marriage to a southron enemy_. Val silently snarled at her own thoughts.

The journey from Winterfell had been long. It wasn't as strenuous as journeys Val embarked on before, but it felt long. Day after day, the view remained almost the same: trees. The solemn Stark lord spoke to everyone – including Val – when it suited his fancy, the Giantsbane would tell raunchy tales when they supped in the open, around a crackling fire, and Jon Snow would mostly stay silent, though once in a while he conversed with his father. He'd attempted to speak to Val once, but it was her choice to ignore him.

As for the rain, it'd stopped for a day or two – only to reappear at night in vast torrents. The torrential rain would not cease until early morning. That lasted for the majority of the journey from Winterfell.

"We are approaching the Gift," Stark informed Val as the forest finally seemed to come to an end. Gazing ahead, Val spotted more trees, open fields and buildings similar to those in the town outside of Winterfell. It looked abandoned. Not far from her was an upturned bucket lying on the ground. "Plenty of fertile land here but largely unattended to. Once the war is over and you and Jon become Protectors of the Gift, I'm certain it'll return to its once prospering state."

"The northerners won't trust me," Val heard herself say flatly. "I have no wish to be a protector of this land."

"Not even for peace?" Stark's mild tone bothered Val. "You'd rather thousands of your clansmen, kin and allies die in an endless war because you refuse to this? My men and allies will die as much as yours. The bold men will think me craven for wanting peace, but what will happen to them when the true enemy comes?"

Val looked at him strangely. Had he gone mad like Mance? What was with the two of them and this true enemy business?

"The true enemy," said the Lord of Winterfell, nodding ahead, "lies north. Only together we can survive."

"Who is this true enemy?"

Now it was the Stark lord's turn to stare at Val strangely. "Winter of course."

* * *

 **I really enjoyed writing this chapter. I thought Val and the Stark girls could have a lot in common with their martial interests and decided to give them a scene together. As Val is Jon's wife, it won't hurt for her to win some Starks onto her side :)**

 **Ted Hsu, I haven't actually read 'Will of the Will-O-Wisp' but it sounds really interesting! I'll have a look at it one day when I don't have work, uni, assignments, exams...so hopefully soon! :D**


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